TITLE: HOLLOW EARTH

AUTHOR: Suzanne Bickerstaffe

EMAIL ADDRESS: ecksphile@earthlink.net

DISTRIBUTION: After Virtual Season 9’s rights

expire, anywhere is fine as long as

the story is not altered, author’s

name is attached, and no profit is

made.

SPOILERS: Passing references to past cases, but

nothing crucial.

RATING: Maybe a PG-13 or a soft R for

language and adult activities.

CLASSIFICATION: X

SUMMARY: Sent by Skinner on an investigation

into the disappearance of three men

in rural Kentucky, Mulder and

Scully’s best suspect would appear to

be Bigfoot. But the answer to this

X-File is much, much weirder than

that.

DISCLAIMERS: CC doesn’t deserve them. What? Oh, all

right… The X-Files and the

characters of Mulder, Scully and

Skinner belong to Fox Television, 1013

Productions, and Chris Carter — who

clearly did not know what to do with

them. No copyright infringement is

intended and no financial gain is

being made from this story.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: Many thanks to the Inner Core, a

great group of women who are giving a

lot of time to bring enjoyment to

others, and to MaryBeth and Ten who

beta’ed relentlessly!

HOLLOW EARTH

Prologue

Mammoth Caves National Forest

Doob Creek, Kentucky

Sunday

1:37 AM

“Bastard!” With a none-too-clean sleeve, he wiped the

blood from his nose and the cut on his cheekbone,

noting with satisfaction that the bleeding seemed to

be stopping. “S’om’ bitch! Cain’t say shit like

that to Jack-Bob Smithers an’ git away with it!”

He thrashed his way through the woods, stumbling,

falling, then lurching to his feet again. Lack of

light was not the problem — the moonlight shone down

almost as bright as day. No, the problem was the

record-high amount of alcohol in his system. And for

Jack-Bob Smithers, that was saying a lot.

He tripped over a fallen branch and sprawled

headlong. “Goddamn it!”

A short but frantic search through the stand of

fiddleheads, and his hand touched the smooth, cool

object of its quest. Triumphantly, he held the bottle

up to the moonlight. Only a mouthful left, but the

bottle was intact. He drained the contents and sat

for a moment, catching his breath.

The forest sure is quiet tonight, he thought. But

after all the yellin’ and screamin’ in town, anything

would be quiet. He chuckled. “Yep — cain’t insult

ol’ Jack-Bob. No, sirree!” He clenched and unclenched

his right hand, the pain numbed by the corn liquor

coursing its way warmly though his system. “Pro’bly

broke m’damn hand agin,” he mumbled. But the fact

that he had broken it while beating the shit out of

that smart-mouthed tourist brought some comfort.

He staggered to his feet. Blearily he looked around,

trying to get his bearings. “Goddamn still should be

’round here somewheres. Musta got off the trail….”

Unsteadily he picked his way through the trees,

intent on finding the little shack that was the

center of his life.

The center of his life, his business, his vocation,

his avocation, his true calling. Even his detractors

— and they were legion — were forced to admit that

Jack-Bob produced the smoothest, the strongest, the

most bodacious corn squeezings in the county. Maybe

even the state. And it was to that shack, to refill

his bottle, that the backwoods entrepreneur ventured

into the forest. Not to mention that the Sheriff was

also after him for that little dust-up back in

town…

Yep, the woods sure were quiet. A little too quiet,

even with the bright moon that would naturally make

the wildlife extra-careful. Nervously, he looked over

his shoulder, almost toppling in the process. He

thought about the two locals who had disappeared in

this same area of the forest. His lips retracted in a

smile which would not recommend him for Dental

Hygiene poster boy, and he chuckled again. ‘Course,

Floyd Purdy and Junior Naismith between ’em didn’t

have the sense God gave a goose, he thought. Not like

him.

He weaved through the thick undergrowth, catching

glimpses of the full moon through the trees ahead of

him. His brow furrowed in concentration. Something

was wrong, something just didn’t set right…

That was it! It was his shadow. If the moon was ahead

of him, surely his shadow should be behind him,

right? Any fool knew that. Then why… then why could

he see his shadow, right there in front of him?

The hair on the back of his neck stood up, stiff as a

hound dog’s hackles. Almost against his will, he

turned, to the source of light behind him.

His eyes bulging, they tracked upward, and his lips

curled back in horror. And he began to scream…

ACT ONE

FBI Headquarters

J Edgar Hoover Building

Washington, DC

Thursday

8:35 AM

“Ah, good. Come in and sit down.” Walter Skinner

pushed back from his desk and threw his pen down with

relief. At least his agents got a break from the

paperwork on a regular basis. He wondered if they

ever gave any thought to how mundane, how thankless

and just plain boring his job was.

Fox Mulder and Dana Scully took their accustomed

places in the chairs in front of the massive walnut

desk. At least one of them was thinking guiltily

about the last expense report.

Skinner opened a manila folder edged in red striping.

“I have something right up your alley, Mulder.”

Scully sighed. They had been working non-stop lately,

and she had been almost hoping that today’s trip to

Skinner’s office was to be chewed out for an

uncrossed “t” or undotted “i” in some report.

Something right up Mulder’s alley? Alarm bells

started clanging in her head.

The AD passed three photographs to her. “The

unprepossessing individual in the picture is one

Jack-Bob Smithers of Doob Creek, Kentucky. After

being thrown out of what passes for the hottest

nightspot in Doob Creek early last Sunday morning, he

got into a fight and beat the hell out of some guy

who looked at him the wrong way. Apparently that’s

Smither’s usual weekend entertainment. Then he took

off into the forest. Doob Creek is located within the

boundaries of Mammoth Caves National Park. He hasn’t

been seen since.”

Scully shrugged and passed the photo to her partner.

“I can’t imagine there’s anything ominous about that,

sir. The guy probably knows every hiding place in the

Park. And if he thought he was wanted on assault

and battery or GBH charges, he’d have every incentive

to lie low for a while.”

“Point taken, Agent. Evidently, Smithers is the kind

of guy who brightens up a place by leaving it. The

Sheriff’s just as glad to have him out of his hair

for a while. He wouldn’t have reported it at all

except for…” He hitched his head in the direction

of the other photographs in her lap. She picked them

up and scanned them.

“Billy ‘Junior’ Naismith and Floyd Purdy,” he

continued. “Two more of the town’s least popular

residents. They disappeared in the same ‘neck

o’ the woods’ a little over three weeks ago.”

Mulder took the photos offered by his partner and

winced. “What an advertisement for planned

parenthood.” He put them down and looked at his boss

quizzically. “I don’t understand why this is ‘right

up my alley’, as you say, sir. Either they’re hiding

out, they’ve found another town to blight, or maybe

someone finally had enough of their antics and saw to

it that they’d never bully the other kids in the

schoolyard again. A crime, yeah” — he looked at the

photos again — “well, technically anyway. But right

up my alley?”

“I’ve been saving the best part for last.” Skinner

handed over a sheaf of papers, and after another long

look at his boss, Mulder began to read them. A few

minutes passed while he digested the contents, then

he gave them wordlessly to his partner. Both men

waited for the explosion, which was not long in

coming.

“Oh, sir, you’ve got to be kidding! Bigfoot? Give me

a break!” Scully rolled her eyes. “Sir, Mulder’s

right, this is nothing more than what it appears to

be. A bunch of ne’er-do-wells who either wore out

their welcome and moved on, or finally pissed off the

wrong person once too often. This is a wild goose

chase, and Mulder and I are exhausted!”

Skinner pushed his glasses back on the bridge of his

nose. “I know, Agent Scully, and I sympathize. In a

way, that’s why I’m giving you this assignment.”

“Because no good deed goes unpunished?” she suggested

sourly. Beside her, Mulder chuckled.

Skinner smiled. “No. Look, we all know this case is

probably a pile of crap. But there are always people

looking over my shoulder, as I’m sure you’ll agree.

If I let a case that looks like an X-File go

uninvestigated, sooner or later it will be used

against us. This way, you go down there, you check it

out, and your butts will be back on a plane in time

to have you home before rush hour tomorrow. Then

you’ll have your whole weekend ahead of you.”

Scully looked doubtful.

“A little luck with the connections and we might even

be home in time for lunch, ” Mulder said, smiling.

“Come on – another little trip to the forest. What

could go wrong?”

She shot him a withering glance. “Don’t get me

started.”

“Here.” Skinner passed a portfolio to her. It

contained plane tickets and maps — lots of maps. She

looked up at him.

“Doob Creek is a little… remote,” he said, not

meeting her eyes.

It was at that point she gave up on any plans for the

weekend.

* * * *

“A little remote. Skinner’s a dead man,” she

muttered. It had been her mantra for the last hour

and a half. The trip from Dulles to St. Louis had not

been bad. But the tiny commuter plane from St. Louis

to Bowling Green was another matter entirely. Never

mind that it had no restroom. Never mind that even

the diminutive Scully couldn’t stand upright in it.

No, the real problem was the terrifying hour that it

spent, bouncing like flubber off the storm clouds.

Her hands still ached from gripping the arm rests.

Then, once on the ground, the maps had proven less

than helpful, thanks to flash flooding from the

now-passed storm and some long, circuitous detours

caused by construction.

Mulder noticed a sign by the side of the road. ‘Doob

Creek,’ it announced, ‘Home of the World Famous

Mammoth Caves’. Beneath, in newer paint, was

inscribed ‘Home of Bigfoot’. “Cheer up, Scully. I

do believe we’re entering Doob Creek.”

“And only three hours late,” she grumped.

He scanned the street for the Sheriff’s Office.

“Well, admittedly getting home by lunch tomorrow

isn’t looking good. But with a little luck, we’ll

finish up here tonight, have a good night’s sleep,

and be back in our own beds tomorrow… What’s all

this?”

She roused herself to look out the window at the

almost carnival atmosphere in the street. “I don’t

know… Mulder, stop! There’s the Sheriff’s Office.”

They got out of the car and stretched gratefully. A

tall, broad-shouldered young man wearing a uniform

approached them. “Agent Mulder? I’m Sheriff John

Finn. Folks ’round here just call me Big John.”

They shook hands, and Mulder introduced Scully.

“Come on into the office outta all… this,” he said

with a sweep of his hand. “Y’all look like you could

use some coffee.”

They hesitated before following him, taking in the

street scene. The sidewalk was covered in card tables

and lengths of plywood set on sawhorses. It looked

like a giant flea market. And on the tables…

“Come an’ git your Bigfoot T-shirts! All sizes for

everyone in the family!”

“Right here! Git a gen-oo-ine Bigfoot photograph!”

Mulder strolled to a table and held a T-shirt against

his chest – ‘I Survived the Attack of Bigfoot, Doob

Creek, Kentucky, Spring, 2002.’ “What do you think,

Scully? Is it ‘me’?”

“No, thank you.” Scully declined the ceramic Bigfoot

vase being pressed on her by the persistent artisan.

“I don’t know, Mulder. It might clash with your

Marvin the Martian” — she glanced around the crowded

sidewalk — “accessories.”

He grinned and put the shirt down, much to the

disappointment of the vendor. Then they went into the

quiet of Finn’s office.

“What’s going on here, Sheriff?” she asked.

“Call me Big John.”

“Big John from Harvard University, it would appear

like,” Mulder observed, pointing to a framed diploma

on the wall.

The Sheriff handed them mugs of coffee and gestured

to the cream and sweetener. “I was born and brought

up right here in Doob Creek. Could hardly wait to get

the hell outta here. But six years up north – I

stuck around to get my Master’s in Criminal Justice –

and I found to my shock I was homesick. So I came

back. Have a seat.”

Mulder took a chair and smiled. “That’s a lot of

educational firepower for a town like this.”

The Sheriff returned his grin self-consciously. He

was handsome in a baby-faced sort of way, Scully

noted, and towered a good five inches above Mulder.

“Well, I guess that’s so. I was recruited by the

Bureau, did you know that? But I’d had enough of big

cities. This is where I belong.”

“So what’s going on in town?” Scully repeated.

He laughed. “There’s not too much that goes on here

usually. Some tourists, mostly in summer. The bar

fights every Saturday night, the occasional church

socials. So when somethin’ out of the ordinary

happens, well, folks here take advantage of it.”

“So, have there been sightings of this ‘Bigfoot’

creature?” Mulder pressed.

“You could say that,” he nodded agreeably. “There’s

somethin’ in those woods. Of course there’s been

stories for years that go back to when Doob Creek was

first settled. I was brought up on ’em. But I

always figured they were just moonshine-inspired

fairy tales. That was, until I saw the damn thing

myself.”

Scully’s eyebrows shot up. “What exactly did you

see?”

“We were out in the forest, lookin’ for the first two

men who went missin’. All of a sudden, it got real

quiet – no birdsong, nothin’. And a ways away, I saw

something big, walkin’ on two legs. Kinda looked like

a man, from the glimpse I got. ‘Cept he was near to

ten feet tall.”

She was far from convinced. “How far away were you?”

He shook his head. “Too far. But others have seen it

recently too. A couple of hunters got the shit scared

outta ’em – oh, sorry, ma’am. Said they saw him

through the trees one night. Described him as bein’

big, but not all hairy and shaggy like you see in

those pictures they’re sellin’ out there. And they

said… they said he, like… glowed.”

“Glowed,” echoed Mulder thoughtfully. He was toying

with his bottom lip in a way Scully had come to

associate with his announcement of some of his wilder

theories. “Sheriff, do you think whatever people are

seeing is responsible for the disappearance of those

three men?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. To be honest, I don’t

much care, and y’all won’t hear anything different

from anyone in this town. Those boys were bullies and

troublemakers, have been since they could stand

upright. Just mean, nasty men with a likin’ for

alcohol and beatin’ up on folks smaller and weaker

than them. I’m an officer of the law, and I should

care what happened to ’em, if a crime’s been

committed. But I’ve had a skinful of their

shenanigans over the years, and the town’s better off

without ’em.”

“Perhaps you could give us a list of the names and

addresses of their families, Sheriff,” Scully

suggested.

“And point us in the direction of a motel,” Mulder

added.

“I got everything you need right here – names,

addresses, a map of the town, and another of the area

where they disappeared. As for motels, most of our

tourists just kinda pass through. There’s just one

place, called the Cave Inn. It’s not much, but it’s

clean, and I reserved y’all a couple of cabins.”

Mulder stood and shook hands. “Thank you, Sheriff.

We’ll check in with you later.”

With the comfortable pressure of Mulder’s hand at the

small of her back, Scully led the way out into the

street.

“You’re too quiet,” observed Scully. “Don’t tell me

you’re buying in to this Bigfoot thing.”

Enigmatically, he smiled as he held her car door

open. “Not at all.”

Thank God for that, she mused. The happy thought

lasted only as long as it took him to get into the

car and start the engine.

“I think they have altogether the wrong creature in

mind.”

* * * *

They drove to the first address on the list, a

shabbily genteel old Victorian home.

An elderly lady, petite even by Scully’s standards,

answered the door. “Y’all must be the folks Big John

called about. Come right on in and have a seat in the

parlor.”

The ‘parlor’ was like a room from the set of a movie.

Horsehair-stuffed sofas and chairs were dotted with

fine lace doilies, probably handmade by the lady

herself. The darkly ornate pattern of the upholstery

was repeated in the heavy draperies, tied back with

tasseled cords. Little tables were everywhere,

covered with fringe-shaded lamps and dozens of

silver-framed photographs dating back to the turn of

the century. Curio cabinets filled with mementos vied

for the little remaining space.

Emma Purdy approached from the hallway with a

heavily-laden tray. Mulder leapt up, took it from her

hands and carried it to the one empty table in front

of the sofa. “Why, thank you, young man. Now please

have a seat and help yourself. That’s fresh-squeezed

lemonade and some pecan cookies that just came out of

the oven.”

“You really shouldn’t have gone to all this bother,”

said Scully.

“Nonsense! It’s nice to have callers. Now — how can

I help you?”

“We’re looking into the disappearance of your nephew

and two other men,” began Mulder.

“Well, honey, if I were you, I’d see the sights in

town and then just go on back to Washington. You

won’t find ’em, and everybody’d be a whole lot

happier if you didn’t.”

“Forgive me, but I find the lack of interest in

finding these men rather puzzling,” Scully commented.

“Floyd Purdy is your nephew, is he not?”

“Yes, he’s kin – my great nephew, to be exact. That

doesn’t take away from the fact that he was a trial

to this town and his family his whole life,” Miss

Purdy said, without rancor. “The first few times he

got into trouble, I stood by him, even paid his bail.

And lost it, when he lit out of town. Unfortunately,

the law would always find him and bring him back. But

I got so I just couldn’t stomach his behavior any

more. The only peace I had was when he was in jail.

Finally, he stole from me — took my grandmother’s

silver and sold it. Spent the money on whores and

liquor. That was the last straw.”

“Did he ever hit you?” Mulder asked gently.

To his surprise, she emitted a dry cackle. “Hit me?

Hell, no! Floyd’s dumb as a stump, but he has more

sense than to raise a hand to me. I may look like a

defenseless old lady, but I’m a tough old bird. I

can take care of myself.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it for an instant,” he replied,

amused.

“How long has it been since you’ve seen him?” his

partner asked.

“I threw him out of the house and got a restraining

order two years ago. He hasn’t lived here since. I’ve

seen him around town, of course, right up to the day

before he disappeared. But I haven’t had any contact

with him since I threw him out.”

“He never came back, threatened you?” she inquired.

“Well, now you mention it, just once, about a year

ago. He wasn’t threatenin’ – he just came to ask for

money. But I called Big John as soon as I saw Floyd

coming up the walk, and John dragged him out of here.

Must have given him a good talking to — or worse —

because he never tried that stunt again.”

They got up to leave. “Thank you, Miss Purdy,” said

Mulder. “If we think of anything else, we’ll be in

touch. And thanks for the lemonade. I haven’t tasted

anything that good since I was a kid at my

grandmother’s house.”

Her cheeks flushed with pleasure. “Thank you, Mr.

Mulder. You’re a nice, polite boy. I’ll bet your

parents are real proud of you.”

His eyes darkened for a second, so quickly and so

subtly that only Scully could have noticed. “Yes,

ma’am,” was all he said.

“You okay?” she asked when they returned to the car.

His lips twitched in a self-deprecating smile. “Yeah.

It just stings a bit when I’m not expecting it.

Besides, my mind is too involved with other things at

the moment to waste much time on old baggage.”

Her eyebrow arched. “What things?”

“Oh… you, for instance.” He glanced over at her,

then returned his eyes to the road ahead.

She squeezed his free hand. “Lovely sentiment,

Mulder. But I know you too well. What else?”

“Just a theory, and a glimmer of a plan. We’ll talk

over dinner.”

Next on their list was the wife of Billy ‘Junior’

Naismith. They pulled into the Sans Souci Trailer

Park and after some confusion with the layout of the

units, eventually found Mrs. Naismith’s mobile home.

An extraordinary woman in her late forties answered

their ring. Give Tammy Faye Bakker a sixty-inch

bustline and a Dolly Parton wig… “Mrs. Naismith?”

Mulder choked out.

“Call me Glory Bee,” she said heartily. “Everyone

does.”

Scully’s eyes widened as Mulder entered and she got a

good look at the woman for the first time. She could

well imagine most males uttering ‘Glory be!’ when

they saw her.

The woman stood beside Mulder, who was scanning the

photographs on her walls avidly. “Yep, that’s me, a

few years ago. I used to be a headliner, you know.

Never made it up north, but there isn’t a strip

club south of the Mason-Dixon that I haven’t danced

in. You like the pictures?”

“They’re… er… remarkable,” Mulder said. “You

wouldn’t have a spare that you could autograph, would

you? I have a friend…”

“Sure, honey, I got a stack of ’em. Now what’s your

‘friend’s’ name?” she asked archly, pulling a pen and

a photograph from a drawer.

“Melvin.”

“Mulder!” Scully whispered fiercely.

“It’s okay, sweetie. Just mixin’ a little pleasure

with business. Nothin’ wrong with that. Now you give

this to ‘Melvin’ with my best wishes, you hear? Come

on in and set yourselves down in the kitchen. The

living room’s a mess.”

When they were settled, she lit a cigarette, inhaling

deeply and with evident pleasure. “I suppose you’re

here about Junior. You didn’t find his body by any

chance, did you?”

“So far there’s been no evidence of foul play, other

than the fact that he’s missing,” Scully said

carefully. “Do you have reason to think that he’s

dead?”

“Shit, I’m *hoping* he’s dead!”

Mulder smiled. “In that case, we’re sorry to raise

your hopes falsely. Why do you feel that way?”

“Because the man’s a boil on the butt-end of

humanity, that’s why. Lived off my money, took up

with other women. When he wasn’t too hammered to

move, that is. Beat me up a couple times, put me in

the hospital.”

“Why didn’t you divorce him?” Although Scully asked

the question, the woman’s attention was completely on

Mulder, and her response was to him.

She inhaled and blew out a cloud of smoke. “For one

thing, he threatened to kill me. Now between you and

me, I doubt he’da had the balls to do that. But he

also said that these days, men could git alimony from

their ex-wives, and git half of whatever they had. I

have a little nest egg squirreled away that he could

never manage to git his hands on. If I’da divorced

him, he said he would git half of it. That true?”

“We’re not attorneys, ma’am,” replied Mulder. “I

don’t know if Kentucky is a community property state

or not, but if it is, then yes, it’s possible.”

“When’s the last time you saw your husband, Mrs.

Naismith?” Scully asked tersely. The sooner they

finished this investigation, the sooner they could go

back home.

Once again, it was as if Glory Bee didn’t even know

Scully was in the room. “The day he left to go

huntin’,” she told Mulder. “It’s illegal to hunt in

the forest, ’cause it’s a national park and all, but

that wouldn’t stop Junior and Floyd. Nor the fact

it’s not huntin’ season anyway. But I ‘spect the only

huntin’ goin’ on was for Jack-Bob’s still.”

“Moonshine?”

“Sure ’nuff, honey. The man sopped it up like a

dishrag.”

Mulder looked at the woman appraisingly. “What do you

think happened to him?”

“I’m hopin’ Bigfoot stomped him into the ground. But

it’s more likely he and Floyd had a fallin’ out, or

Jack-Bob killed ’em for tryin’ to steal from his

still.”

Scully rose. “Thank you, Mrs. Naismith. We’ll be in

touch.”

She led the way out. Behind her, Glory Bee linked her

arm in Mulder’s. “Now if your friend likes that

photo, you tell him to write me. A friend of yours is

a friend of mine.”

“I’ll be sure to tell him,” Mulder assured her.

Scully’s eyes rolled, but she held her tongue until

they were in the car and driving away.

“Amazing woman,” her partner said mildly.

She snorted. “What’s amazing is that the woman can

stand upright.”

“Jealous, Scully?”

“Jeal–!”

He chuckled. “Relax. I was only kidding. I prefer my

women redheaded, petite and less… well, less.”

“‘Your *women*’?”

“My only woman.” He glanced over to see her

expression soften. “But she might be a good match for

Frohike.”

Scully burst out laughing. “He’d think he’d died and

gone to heaven.”

“Come on. What do you say we get some barbecue and

take it back to the motel?”

“You’re on.”

* * * *

While not adjoining, their cabins were next to each

other at the end of the row, surrounded by tall

conifers. Sheriff Finn had been right. The Cave Inn

would never make Conde Nast’s Ten Best list, but the

cabins were immaculate and comfortably, if shabbily,

furnished. They included a tiny kitchenette. Both

cabins would be used, as was their habit lately when

on the road. But there was a fair chance that only

one would be slept in.

Mulder stood in the middle of Scully’s cabin, his

arms outstretched. “All the comforts of home.”

“*Your* home, maybe,” she replied, but her eyes

twinkled with good humor. She wrapped her arms around

him. “Mmmm, this feels good.”

They kissed with the same sense of coming home they

always felt, locked in each other’s arms. Eventually,

Scully stepped away reluctantly. “Food’s getting

cold,” she murmured.

“And everyone knows, Bigfoot Bar-B-Cue and Sasquatch

Fries are no good cold,” he agreed. They got out

plates and utensils and began to eat.

“So what’s your theory, Mulder?”

Chewing, he shook his head. “Too early to say. The

“glowing” thing twigged something in my memory, but I

just can’t bring it into focus. But I’ll bet you have

a theory. And I’ll bet it has nothing to do with

Bigfoot.”

“Damned right I have a theory. And actually, it does

have something to do with Bigfoot.”

“Scully!” he exclaimed, grinning. “Don’t tell me

you’ve finally seen the light!”

She chuckled. “Not exactly. I think those men are

dead, Mulder. And I think everyone we’ve talked to

today – including Sheriff Finn – either knows about

it or were active participants in the killings.”

“Even sweet little old Miss Purdy?”

“I don’t suppose you noticed the gunrack in her

hallway.”

“With the three very fine expensive shotguns? Of

course I did. I even took a sniff at them when I took

the tray from her. They didn’t smell like they had

been fired recently.”

“And she wouldn’t know how to clean a gun?”

He made a motion in the air, giving her the point.

“I’ll bet she was a crack shot in her day, too. But

where’s your evidence? And what’s the Bigfoot

connection?”

“Well, I don’t have anything that isn’t

circumstantial,” she admitted. “But you have three

men, despised by everyone in town, including their

nearest and dearest. Their relatives have every

reason to want them gone permanently, as does the

Sheriff. And look at the town! With this revival of

the Bigfoot myth, this town is having an economic

renaissance. Tourist season is just getting underway,

and bound to be better than all expectations because

of the Bigfoot business, and that’s going to mean a

lot of dollars flooding in. So everyone benefits.”

He dabbed at his mouth with a paper napkin. “Well, I

can’t say that that doesn’t make a hell of a lot of

sense. Except for one thing. If people in this town

were involved in the disappearances, with the

knowledge or active participation of the Sheriff,

they would be home free. No one would be any the

wiser and everyone would be happy. So why contact the

Bureau? Why open themselves up to that risk of being

found out? Unless he has one hell of an ego and wants

to see if he can put one over on us, I can’t see

Sheriff Finn calling in the FBI if the town were

trying to get away with murder.”

“I can’t see the incentive, that’s true,” she

admitted. “I don’t know, Mulder, maybe Finn is trying

to prove something. Or… or maybe he knows who did

it, but doesn’t want to have to bring them to justice

himself because of his fondness for them, so he

called us in to do the dirty work.”

“Maybe…”

From the far-off look in her partner’s eyes, Scully

knew he wasn’t really listening. “Mulder?”

“Oh. Sorry. Hey, Scully, how tired are you?”

She smiled and her heart beat faster. She got up from

her side of the table and slipped into his lap, her

arms around his neck. “Not so tired we can’t engage

in some nice bonding activity,” she said in a low,

throaty whisper.

He stroked her hair and murmured softly, “I’m so glad

you feel the same way I do. I’m sure Sheriff Finn can

lend us a couple of sleeping bags.”

Abruptly, she pulled back to look him in the eyes.

“Sleeping bags?”

“Of course. If we’re going to spend the night in the

forest watching for ‘Bigfoot’, we’re going to need

them!”

ACT TWO

Millie’s Diner

Doob Creek, Kentucky

Friday morning

7:35 AM

She sat alone for the moment at the formica table.

Scully propped up her head with one hand and clutched

her coffee cup in the other, her eyes nearly closed

in weariness. But all things considered, the

experience had not been as bad as she had feared.

They had changed into their ‘forest’ gear and

received not only sleeping bags, but a tent, lantern,

thermos of coffee and directions from Sheriff Finn.

Entering the Mammoth Caves National Park by the

back trail Finn specified, they left the car and

followed the path to the fork, easily finding the

secondary path to the general area where ‘Bigfoot’

had been sighted and the men disappeared. For hours

they watched the forest from the shelter of the tent,

noting nothing but the sounds of wildlife and the

hypnotic, susurrous breeze through the treetops.

Whether it was the peaceful setting, the clement

weather, or the presence of sleeping bags on this

trip to the woods, Mulder indeed ‘got lucky’.

So did I, Scully thought with a smile.

And of course, there were the footprints.

On arising shortly after dawn, they packed away the

gear and began the hike out of the Park. With the

daylight in their favor, they kept their eyes on the

ground, looking for anything that might explain the

disappearance of the missing men. Suddenly, Mulder

stopped, whistling low in amazement.

“Scully. Take a look at this.”

On a patch of muddy ground left by the previous day’s

storm were two footprints, made by what looked like

sandals or moccasins. Size 26 sandals or moccasins…

Trip to the restroom completed, Mulder rejoined his

partner. The waitress set down their breakfasts —

the Bigfoot Biggie for him, grits and fruit salad for

her — and refilled their coffee cups.

“What’s our next move, Scully?”

“I propose we go by the Sheriff’s office, return the

camping gear and report the footprints, grab a few

hours sleep at the motel and go home.”

He put down his fork. “But what about–”

“The footprints are intriguing, Mulder, I’ll admit

it. But we’re here to investigate the disappearances

of those men, and we saw no signs of violence, no

clues to follow, nothing. Maybe they were murdered

and we’ve been cleverly misdirected. Maybe they

simply moved on to someplace else. But either way,

it’s a non-case, at least for us. Those footprints

might have been manufactured, for all we know, by

some of the townspeople who have every reason to

profit by our finding them.” She spooned in a

mouthful of grits.

“If they were faked, they’re damn good fakes, Scully,

you have to admit. They were the right depth and the

right distance apart to indicate a nine-and-a-half

foot tall, 400 pound biped, probably human.”

Her eyebrow arched. “And Sheriff Finn doesn’t have

the brains and training to manufacture a set of

prints like that?”

He waggled his head in concession to her point.

“And unless Bigfoot has taken to footwear…”

“I told you, Scully, I don’t think Bigfoot is the

issue here. I think–” He was interrupted by the

trill of his cellphone.

It was Skinner. Quickly, Mulder briefed the AD on

their progress, or lack thereof, thus far.

“I just got a report across my desk and need you to

break off your investigation there. Especially if

you’re at a standstill anyway.”

“What is it, sir?” He looked meaningfully at Scully

and her eyes rolled. Somehow, going home didn’t seem

likely.

“Two men are missing in Lassen Peak Volcanic National

Park from the nearby town of Manzanita Lake,

California.”

“California,” Mulder repeated for his partner’s

benefit. With a sigh, Scully signaled the waitress

for more coffee.

“Yes. There are certain similarities to the case

you’re currently working on. The two men involved are

not exactly the town’s most upstanding citizens, and

there have been unsubstantiated reports of a huge

‘man-beast’ in the National Park. Also…”

“Yes, sir?”

“The huge man-like creature? He had something with

him…”

Mulder waited for what Skinner was obviously having a

hard time delivering.

“It was… well, it was described as a huge furry

elephant.”

Mulder leaned back in the booth, thinking furiously.

“Agent Mulder, are you there? You’d better not be

laughing…”

“No. I mean, yes I’m here and no, I’m not laughing.

When do we have to be there?”

“Today. I have tickets waiting at Bowling Green

airport. A short hop to Cincinnati, then to San

Francisco, and change there for Redding. You’ll take

a rental car from Redding.”

“Sounds like it’s a bit–”

“Remote. Yes. Tell Agent Scully I’m sorry. I guess

this is why you agents are paid the big bucks.”

Yeah, right, Mulder thought. “She’s right here, sir,

you can tell her that yourself.”

“Discretion is the better part of valor, Agent

Mulder. And in this case, delegation. I delegate you

to brief her on what I’ve told you.”

He could hear the amusement in his superior’s voice.

“In that case, you owe me one. We’ll call you from

there.” Mulder pushed the button to end the

connection.

“We’re not going home, are we?”

He shook his head. “Manzanita Lake, California. More

disappearances of unpopular people, more sightings of

a big man-like creature. And this time,” Mulder said,

eyes twinkling, “he brought his pet.”

“Pet?”

He grinned. “I’ll brief you on the way.”

* * * *

Manzanita Lake, CA

Friday evening

More miles later than she wanted to think about, a

very rumpled and tired Dana Scully emerged from the

rental car parked in front of the small combined

police-and-fire station. Mulder, no less rumpled but

in a decidedly more receptive frame of mind, joined

her on the sidewalk and together they entered the

building.

“We’re here to see Captain Lopez,” she announced to

the sergeant at the desk.

“You from the Bureau? He’s expecting you. I’ll show

you to his office.”

Michael Lopez’s dark face was warmed by a broad,

welcoming smile.

“Jerry, some coffee, please. Our guests look like

they could use it.” To them, he said, “Please, sit

down. I appreciate your coming all the way out here.

We’re not an easy commute.”

“Amen,” Scully muttered under her breath.

Mulder shot her a sympathetic glance, then got down

to business. “What can you tell us about the

disappearances?”

Lopez handed him two files. “Julio Esposito and Frank

Crane. Both with long records that go back to juvie.

Mostly assault and battery, burglary, car theft.

Nothing to make the Ten Most Wanted List, but royal

pains in the ass nonetheless. They’ve both done

prison time, but always end up coming back here.

Esposito has a temper, especially when he’s been

drinking. Beats his girlfriend up regularly, but she

won’t press charges against him, so our hands are

tied. Crane is, if anything, worse. Unfortunately,

he’s been arrested a lot more than he’s been

convicted. We suspect that lately he’s into drug

running, but don’t have enough evidence to go after

him… yet.”

“So the town doesn’t really miss them,” Scully

concluded.

“Bingo. Anyway, Crane disappeared about two weeks

ago. We thought he either cleared out, or ran afoul

of some of his ‘well-connected’ friends over drugs.

Last anyone knew, he went up to the Park. We even

followed him most of the way, convinced a deal was

going down. Unfortunately, we lost him when it got

dark.” Lopez shrugged. “Best laid plans. Anyway, no

one’s seen or heard from him since. Esposito

disappeared three days ago, after telling his

girlfriend he was going into the Park with some

friends. All his friends are accounted for, though,

deny any plans to go into the Park, and seem to have

alibis for the time in question.”

“Is there any other explanation for these

disappearances?” Mulder probed.

The police captain shook his head. “I dunno. It’s

rough country. Even I wouldn’t attempt it in winter.

But this time of year? They might have gotten lost,

of course, but the area’s been pretty thoroughly

combed. If they weren’t found, it’s either because

they weren’t there, or they didn’t want to be found.

Or…”

“Or they were in no condition to be able to yell out

to the searchers?” suggested Scully.

Lopez nodded.

“What’s this about a Man-Beast?” Mulder asked, his

expression bland.

“You got me,” Lopez replied. “There’s been tales here

for over a hundred years about the Man-Beast. I

always thought it was a load of crap. Lately,

though… Well, we have a park ranger, Connie

Crowley, who reported seeing it when she was out

searching for the missing men. Connie’s not the type

to start trouble or see things that aren’t there.

She’s the one that saw the elephant, too. If Connie

said she saw it, I’d bet my pension that she did.”

Something was bothering Scully. “We’ve been working

on a case in Kentucky that bears certain similarities

to this one,” she said. “In that case, the town was

capitalizing on the disappearances, tying it in with

the local Bigfoot legend.”

Lopez snorted in disgust. “You won’t find that here,”

he said firmly. “We like it quiet. Truth is, a few

years ago some tourists said they saw a UFO over the

Park. Shot off their mouths to the press and we were

inundated. Reporters, photographers, UFO crazies…

Finally one of the people who originally reported the

UFO admitted they hadn’t seen anything more than some

funny light in the woods. Could have been anything,

from swamp gas to someone else with a flashlight.

Anyway, the press turned on the town, not that anyone

from here had anything to do with it, and it got real

nasty. Made us out to be fools at best, and money-

grubbing opportunists at worst. Since then, we’ve

downplayed any of the stories about weird things

going on in the Park. We don’t need that mess again.”

He fixed the agents in his glare, his meaning clear.

Mulder looked over to his partner, then back to the

captain. “Okay – we’ll need to talk to the park

ranger, Esposito’s girlfriend, and Crane’s friends.

And we’ll need the name of a motel.”

“It’s getting late to drive up to the Park. Best time

to get Connie would probably be when she goes on duty

tomorrow morning. Esposito’s girlfriend – now that’s

gonna be a problem. She took the opportunity to get

out of town after Julio went missing. I can put out

an APB, but I interviewed her myself after the

disappearance. She was at work immediately before and

after the last time he was seen. I believe she’s in

the clear. And in case the son of a bitch does comes

back, I figured she was better off back with her

family in L.A.”

Mulder shook his head. “If it becomes necessary,

we’ll have someone track her down there.”

“Fine. I interviewed Crane’s friends, too, and they

were dead ends – in more ways than one,” Lopez said,

grinning. But you’re welcome to take another shot at

them. Now… a motel. We don’t have one.” He handed

Mulder a set of keys. “Those are to my cabin, up near

the entrance to the Park. It’s not the Ritz, but it’s

got a septic system, running water and oil lamps.

There’s a double bed downstairs, and another in the

loft. You’ll have to bring in your own food, though.

I live here in town and haven’t had much opportunity

to get away from the job and use it lately.”

Mulder stood. “We appreciate it, Captain Lopez.”

“No, you’re doing me a favor. The sooner we can put

all this behind us, the better. I’ve written out

directions to the cabin. You might want to get some

supplies and get up there while it’s still light.

After dark, you’ll never find it.”

* *

They grabbed the bare necessities at a Mom and Pop

grocery, with ‘Mom’s’ fingers drumming impatiently on

the counter. They were just out the door when the

“Open” sign was whipped around to say “Closed” and

the deadbolt slid into place.

The sun was setting as the car rolled to a stop

outside a rustic cabin.

“Scully? We’re here,” Mulder called gently. His sense

of guilt rose unbidden to the surface. She looked

exhausted, dark semi-circles under her eyes like

bruises on her pale skin.

“Mm?” Her eyes fluttered open. “Is this it?”

“Be it ever so humble. Here.” He handed her a set of

keys. “Why don’t you go on in and sit while I bring

in the food and our bags.”

She smiled, or attempted to. “Normally I’d take

offense, Mulder. But tonight I’m too damn tired to

worry about your being over-solicitous.” With a

groan, she pulled herself from the car and trudged up

the piney path to the cabin.

She was pulling the covers back from the double bed

when he completed the last of the trips to the car.

“What do you feel like eating? I’ll cook,” he

offered.

She began unbuttoning her jacket. “To be honest,

nothing. I’m too tired to eat, I just want to get

some sleep.”

She finished undressing, and pulled one of his T-

shirts over her head. Mulder held open the covers as

she slid in, and he tucked the edges under the

mattress. “Comfy?”

She smiled, putting out a hand to brush an errant

lock of his hair into place. “Not bad. Though I think

I could sleep on the photocopier in the middle of the

bullpen right now. You going to be up late?”

“Not if I can help it. Food, then I want to do a

little research. I’ll make extra, in case you wake up

hungry later.” Bending, he kissed her. She was asleep

before the warmth of his lips dissipated from hers.

Mulder stayed by the bedside, watching her in the

serenity of her sleep, and once more counting his

blessings. Finally, he went to the kitchen, heated up

the canned stew and mixed the contents of the Caesar

salad ‘kit’. Taking a serving of each, he went to the

small utility table and fired up his laptop.

* *

She didn’t know what awakened her, but the door to

the cabin was swinging open and she could hear the

sounds of someone thrashing through the forest. As

she expected, her partner was gone.

“Shit!” Scully leapt out of bed, frantically

rummaging through her overnight bag and pulling on

the first pair of pants she found, then her sneakers.

Pausing only to snatch up her weapon, she dashed

through the door.

“Mulder!”

There was an indistinct yell in reply. She began

running in the general direction of the sound.

“Mulder!” A thousand thoughts buzzed through her

mind, not the least of which being that she and her

partner were going to have another long talk on the

subject of ditching and running headlong into

dangerous situations.

“Over here, Scully. Argh–!”

She pushed branches out of her face and tried not to

think about the snakes that could be slumbering among

the very rocks and stumps she now stumbled over.

“Mulder, I’m coming! Keep yelling!” she called.

Though nearer, his voice seemed weaker. “Here,

Scully!”

She stopped for a moment to get her bearings. “Are

you all right? Where are you?”

“Go more to your right, then straight. Maybe fifty

yards. And no… not exactly.”

She threaded her way around thickets and fallen

trees, moving as quickly as she dared. Though the

bright moonlight was some help, the ground was uneven

and treacherous. “What do you mean, ‘not exactly’?”

He caught sight of the movement of bushes and

branches. “Here, Scully.”

He was on the ground, more or less sitting.

“What in hell is going on, Mulder?” She looked around

the area before holstering her weapon. Then she knelt

on the ground next to him. “All right, where does it

hurt?”

“My ankle. No, the right one. Yes, that’s– Shit!” He

grimaced, his breath a long harsh hiss of pain.

She prodded gently. “Did you hear it snap?”

“No, I think it’s just a sprain. Hurts like hell

though. I caught it between two tree roots as I was

running.”

She sat back on her heels, her face pulled into a

concerned frown. “It’s swelling fast. Do you think

you can make it back to the cabin? Assuming we can

find it, of course.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Well, you could stay here while I go back to the

cabin and call on the cellphone for a rescue party.”

Mulder considered it, but for less than a second.

“I’d just as soon skip that kind of humiliation. If I

can lean on you, I’ll be okay.”

He was a lot less sure of that once he was standing.

If he thought his ankle hurt when he was down, the

focus of sheer agony when he stood left him

breathless, nauseous and dizzy. His partner steadied

him.

“I don’t think this is a very good idea, Mulder.”

“No, I can make it.”

“Well, all right, just don’t put any weight on it.”

“That was my last thought, believe me.”

Much as Scully wanted to know what exactly made her

partner go charging through heavy forest in the dark,

it would have to wait. It required all of his

strength and hers to get him back to the cabin.

Unsure of the way, several times she helped him to

sit, or lean against a tree trunk while she scouted

ahead, looking for familiar landmarks or broken

branches that signaled their way in.

Finally, when both were breathless and sweating

despite the chill of the night, they found the cabin.

Scully got Mulder to the bed, then went out to the

car for her medical bag. When she returned, she shut

the door behind her, turning the deadbolt. Mulder

had peeled off his shirt and unzipped his pants. He

laid back on the bed and she swung his legs up.

Quickly she stripped the shoe and sock from his good

foot and pulled his pants down below his knees. “It’s

going to hurt, getting that shoe off.”

“I know,” he said grimly, bracing himself.

Scully took out the shoelace and as gently as she

could, eased the shoe from his rapidly swelling foot.

Mulder clutched the sheets and turned a whiter shade

of pale, but made no sound. The sock, already skin

tight above the ankle, she simply cut off. The pants

were disposed of next. She lit another oil lamp and

brought it closer to the bed.

“Well, you’ve done a bang-up job of it this time,

Mulder. It’s a very severe sprain, and I can’t

guarantee that you haven’t managed to do some tendon

and ligament damage on top of it. What the hell did

you think you were doing?”

“I *thought* I was pursuing a clue!” he shot back

testily. Then he sighed. “I’m sorry, Scully. You have

every right to be annoyed with me. I’m always acting

without thinking. But you should have seen it!”

“Well, why don’t you tell me about it while I work on

your ankle.” She propped his lower leg on several

pillows, then dug around in her bag, retrieving a

couple of ace bandages and a chemical cold pack.

“I was working at the computer. It had gotten dark

and I didn’t light any lamps because I didn’t want to

disturb you.” He looked at her hopefully, trying to

judge if his thoughtfulness scored any points, but

her expression revealed only her concentration on her

work.

“Anyway, I saw a source of light coming from outside.

At first I thought it might be Sheriff Lopez, driving

up to give us an update. But I didn’t hear a car

engine, and the light wasn’t bright or focused

enough to be headlights. So I looked out, and —

Scully, it was incredible! It was a man… or a man-

like biped — emitting this eerie glow. And he had to

be nine feet tall, at least! Tell you what, why don’t

you take one of the oil lamps and check around the

cabin for footprints?”

“Tell you what, Mulder. Why don’t we wait for morning

and I might let you live.” She taped the ace bandage

into place and expertly cracked the vial inside the

chemical pouch, shaking it until the contents were

cold. “How does that feel?”

He made an ‘iffy’ motion with his hand. “Feels better

being off it and having it stuck up in the air,

that’s for sure.”

“You need to get to an Emergency Room.”

“Not tonight, Scully. We don’t know our way around,

or even if there’s a hospital in town. It can wait

until morning. Besides, you’re exhausted.”

“I won’t deny that.” She slipped off her sneakers and

pants, and joined her partner in bed. She was almost

asleep, when…

“Scully?”

“Mmm?”

“I’m sorry. I did it again, didn’t I? Went running

off after something without thinking.”

Her hand edged across his chest, stroking, soothing.

“‘S all right, Mulder. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“I know.”

* * *

ACT THREE

Manzanita Lake, CA

Saturday

8 A.M.

There was no hospital in town, but Captain Lopez

directed them to a very well-equipped family practice

office. By necessity, Dr. Cote had become a jack-of-

all-medical-specialties in the small town. In a

fraction of the usual time spent in a big city ER,

Mulder was x-rayed and diagnosed with a severe ankle

sprain. It was taped and braced and he was issued

crutches.

Dr. Cote, a dead ringer for Marcus Welby, gave Mulder

a prescription for Tylenol #2. “Now stay off it. No

weight bearing on that leg at all, and the more time

you can spend with it elevated the better, to keep

down the swelling. Loosen the brace if it gets too

tight from the swelling. When you get back to the

city, I’d have that ankle CT scanned. There may be

something I missed and with your profession, you

can’t afford to have a permanent problem.”

They thanked the doctor and made their way out to the

car.

“What now?” Scully asked as they settled in.

“Well, the good news is that you get to drive for the

next few weeks.”

She smiled and squeezed his hand. “I know that. I

meant about the case.”

“Carry on, I guess. You didn’t happen to notice any

footprints this morning outside the cabin, did you?”

His tone was hopeful.

She shook her head. “Too many spruce and pine needles

on the ground to take a print.”

He sighed. “I was afraid of that. Okay, I guess we

should drive up to the ranger station and look for

Connie Crowley. Unless you want to go back to the

cabin and try to get a nap in. You really look beat,

Scully.”

“I am. But let’s talk to the park ranger and see how

much we learn from her.”

“That’s my Scully.” His voice was warm, his

admiration clear in his tone.

Just as she started the engine, Mulder’s cell phone

rang. They exchanged expressions that said that

whatever the reason for the phone call, it couldn’t

be good. “Mulder.”

“This is AD Skinner. What are you doing right now?”

He mouthed “Skinner” for his partner’s benefit, then

said “We were just about to interview an eyewitness.

Why?”

“I need one of you back in Doob Creek as soon as you

can get there. It seems one of the missing men was

returned.”

Mulder’s eyebrows shot up, the AD’s wording not lost

on him. “*Was* returned. By whom?”

“That’s why I need one of you there. The guy’s story

is… frankly, it’s bizarre. Sheriff Finn doesn’t

know what to make of it.”

“Don’t tell me it was Bigfoot after all?”

“Weirder than that.”

Mulder looked at his watch. “At this point, with the

time zones and all, it’s not going to be until

tonight.”

“I know. And so does Sheriff Finn. He’ll be waiting.”

Mulder glanced over at Scully. By this time, his

partner had a pretty good idea of the subject of the

conversation. Her arms were crossed on the steering

wheel, her head resting on them. He swung into

‘protective mode’. “Look, it’s ridiculous to spend

eight hours traveling back there. I don’t suppose we

could do this by phone and save the government some

money.”

“I’m afraid not. I need you there to assess the

situation. I’ll see that you both get some comp time

when you finish the case.”

Yeah, right. Unless there was another case waiting in

the wings by then, Mulder thought sourly. “All right.

One of us will be there tonight.” Viciously he

stabbed the ‘off’ button.

“Let me guess. We have to go back to Kentucky.”

“One of us does. One of the missing men has been

returned and evidently has a story to tell. I’ll do

it, Scully. I know how all the travel wears you out,

and–”

His partner was incredulous. “Mulder! Reality

orientation time! On crutches, you’ll never make the

connections at the airports.”

He grinned back impudently. “I’ll get one of those

cart thingies they chauffeur the old ladies around

in.”

“You can’t keep your foot elevated on the plane.”

“Maybe there’ll be an empty seat I can rest it on. Or

maybe I can charm my way into First Class. There’s

more room in there.”

She went on as if she hadn’t heard him. “Not to

mention the fact that you can’t drive.”

His jaw was set in a stubborn line. “Maybe I–”

Her tone softened. “I appreciate what you’re doing,

Mulder. I do. But it just doesn’t make any sense.

I’ll go. But how will you manage here?”

“Captain Lopez got us out here. He’ll just have to

have one of his men provide transportation for me.

Are you sure, Scully?”

“I’m sure. Skinner is dead meat though, once I get

back to Washington.”

Mulder chuckled wryly. “Don’t think he doesn’t know

that already.”

“I’ll drop you at the police station.”

A minute later, they were there. Looking around

furtively, Mulder saw the coast was clear and pulled

his partner into a long, deep kiss. He broke off

reluctantly and his anxious eyes scanned her face.

Her fingers trailed down his face. “It’s okay,

Mulder. I’ll call you from Kentucky.”

He nodded, then eased himself out of the car, pulling

his crutches from the back seat. “Be safe, Scully.”

She smiled. “Always.”

He watched until the car disappeared in the distance,

then made his way painfully into the police station.

Captain Lopez was waiting for him.

“No cast. I guess that’s a good sign.”

“I guess. I can’t say it feels any better.” Mulder

sat down and gratefully accepted the coffee Lopez

handed him. “My partner had to go back to Kentucky,

and I obviously can’t drive. Any possibility of

one of your men ferrying me around?”

“No problem. It’s not like we’re rushed off our asses

here or anything. How’d you do it, anyway?”

Mulder took a long swallow of the heady brew.

“Chasing something I saw outside your cabin. My best

guess is that it was the same thing Connie Crowley

saw — minus the elephant.”

Lopez’ eyebrows rose to his hairline. “No shit?”

“No shit. A very tall, glowing man-like figure.”

The police captain stood. “Hell, I’ll drive you

myself. If you’re finished with your coffee, we can

go.”

The men chatted on the drive up to the national park,

but Mulder’s mind was less on the conversation than

on the apparition he had seen. Could it be

extraterrestrial, he wondered. For some reason, he

didn’t think so, although he was perfectly willing to

be proven wrong on the matter. Scully’s report after

her interview with the ‘returned’ man would prove

interesting…

Ranger Crowley was just finishing a lecture to some

hikers. She was an attractive woman in a weathered,

outdoorsy sort of way. She was of medium height and

stocky, though Mulder was ready to bet she didn’t

have anything other than heavy muscle on her body.

About middle age, she had the kind of eyes that

didn’t miss much, and her long chestnut hair was

pulled back in a sensible braid.

“Connie, this is Agent Mulder from the FBI. He’d like

to talk to you about what you saw. Maybe we could

move this inside so he can sit down?”

“Sure thing, come on inside. Watch the steps.” She

led the way and soon they were seated before a

crackling fire, an empty chair pulled up for Mulder

to rest his foot on.

The agent let her tell her story.

“We were out searching for Frank Crane. There must

have been twenty or so of us, but we were pretty

spread out. Within shouting distance, but not in

sight of each other. We had been at it all day, very

methodically searching the park on a grid system. We

were in the southwest grid when the sun went down.”

Her keen brown eyes stared intently into Mulder’s.

“Now, there’s no use searching for anyone after dark.

Even with a full moon, you can’t see well enough to

find squat, especially if what or who you’re looking

for doesn’t want to be found. I was just turning

around to start back to the station when I heard

something moving through the trees about fifty yards

off to my left. I saw some glimpses of light and

thought it might be one of the other rangers or one

of the cops in the search party. I changed my path so

it would intersect with the one this other person was

on. I know this park like the back of my hand, and if

it was one of Captain Lopez’ men, I didn’t want him

getting lost.”

“Did you call out to this other person?” Mulder asked

quietly.

Her brow knit in a frown. “No. No, I didn’t, and I’m

not sure why. I guess I thought he could hear me,

though I move pretty quietly. I don’t know, maybe I

thought at the time it might be Crane.”

She scanned Mulder’s face. “Look, I’m not one to

over-dramatize or see things that aren’t there,” she

asserted with some heat.

He nodded slowly. “I’m sure you’re not.”

“Because I don’t want you thinking I’m looking for

publicity, or I’m one of those nut cases in the

Enquirer or on Jerry Springer.”

“Captain Lopez has vouched for your character,”

Mulder assured her. “Please, go on.”

Warily, she continued. “There was an outcropping of

rock that I had to get around to intersect with the

other path. When I did, I guess I was about thirty

feet or so from… from what I saw…”

She hesitated, clearly having difficulty talking

about something she couldn’t explain rationally to

herself, let alone anyone else. “I noticed the smell

first, as I went around the rock. Kind of an earthy,

cow pasture sort of smell. Then when I came into view

of the other trail, I saw it. A huge elephant, only

hairy, with enormous curving tusks. Well, I was just

frozen in place. I couldn’t believe what I was

seeing. Then this… this figure stepped out from the

other side of the creature. He was glowing and had to

be ten feet tall. I didn’t move. I’m not sure I could

have. But he seemed to sense my presence. He looked

over toward me, then moved off quickly in the

opposite direction into the forest. The elephant

followed him.”

Mulder was fascinated. “Was he running away, like he

was afraid of you?”

“No, I wouldn’t say he was running away. It was like

he didn’t want to run into me any more than I wanted

to run into him.”

“How was he dressed?”

“Dressed?” Connie seemed surprised by the question.

“I’m not sure I noticed. Wait a sec… ” She closed

her eyes, as if to concentrate better. “Robes. Loose

robes, like in those pictures of ancient Greeks or

Romans.”

“I don’t suppose you found any physical evidence of

what you saw? Not that I don’t believe you,” Mulder

said quickly as the woman stiffened. “It’s just that

it would help. Footprints, anything like that?”

“It was way too dark to see footprints, and the

weather had been pretty dry, so I’m not sure there

would have been any even if I looked. But I did see

something.” At Lopez’ expression of surprise, she

turned to him. “I’m sorry, Michael. I know I didn’t

tell you before. I was just too freaked out by the

whole thing. But after they left — long after they

left — I went over to where they had been standing.

I found out where the smell was coming from. There on

the trail was a huge pile of what I can only assume

was fresh elephant dung. It was way too big to be

from anything normally in the park. Definitely a

plant-eater, and just way too huge to be from deer or

moose or elk.”

“I don’t suppose you took a sample,” Mulder said

hopefully.

Connie looked at him as if he had taken leave of his

senses. “At that point, Agent Mulder, I got my ass

back to the ranger station as fast as I could move.

Maybe you see enough of this sort of thing to take it

in stride, but I was a basket case. Look, all this is

confidential, right? I love my job here, but if the

powers that be think I’ve started seeing things…”

Mulder chuckled. “Don’t worry about that, Ranger

Crowley. My report will never be seen by anyone from

the Parks Service, I can promise you that.”

Lopez stood. “Thanks, Connie. We’ll let you get back

to work now.”

Mulder swung himself painfully out to the cruiser on

his crutches.

“Where to?” the police captain asked.

By that time, Mulder’s ankle was throbbing terribly.

“Back to your cabin, if you don’t mind, Captain

Lopez. I can do what I need to do by phone and

computer.”

It was a short trip to the cabin. Mulder slid out of

the cruiser and propped his crutches under his arms.

Lopez called out the window, “Sure you’ll be okay?

It’s pretty lonely out here. You’re stuck if you need

anything.”

“No problem. I won’t need anything.”

Lopez nodded. “Yeah, well, I’ll have one of my men or

a ranger drop by later to check and see how you’re

doing. I don’t want to have to explain to Washington

why I abandoned an injured Fibbie.”

“I’ll be fine, thanks,” Mulder assured the police

captain. He was nauseous and in a cold sweat from the

pain by the time he finally got into the cabin and

collapsed in a chair. It was only after Lopez’

cruiser had disappeared from view that he remembered

the prescription for pain medication in his pocket.

After his assurances to Lopez that he would be fine,

his male ego would not allow him to call the police

captain back to run to the pharmacy for him. Wryly,

he thought about what his partner would say if she

were there.

He looked at his watch. Scully would be on her way to

San Francisco by now. Sighing, he looked around the

cabin. She hadn’t stopped at the cabin before she

left, probably feeling that she would be back soon

and she could pick up anything she needed at an

airport shop between flights. Grimacing, he grabbed a

crutch and maneuvered it to where Scully’s medical

bag lay next to the bed. He hooked one of the handles

on to the end of the crutch and swung it around to

drop by his chair. He knew she rarely carried drugs –

not the good kind, anyway – but there was always a

chance. All he found was some ibuprofen, but he

scooped up four tablets and swallowed them without

water, considering himself fortunate.

While he waited for the tablets to take effect on the

bone-deep ache in his ankle, he picked up his cell

phone and dialed a familiar number.

“Lone Gunman.”

“Hi, Byers. I need you guys to help me out on

something.”

“Always glad to oblige, Mulder. It’s been a little

quiet around here.”

“Great. What can you tell me about sightings of a ten

foot tall glowing man dressed in Greek robes and

sometimes accompanied by what sounds like a woolly

mammoth?”

There was a silence at the end of the line. Then,

“No, really, Mulder. What do you want?”

“That’s it.”

He heard a muted discussion in the background between

the three eccentrics, Langly’s bark of laughter, and

Frohike’s question about what hallucinogenics Mulder

had been exposed to this time. “I’m switching to

speaker, Mulder,” Byers’ voice said.

“Really, guys. I’m serious. I seem to remember

something I read once, but can’t quite place it.

Something about glowing super-humans.”

“All right. Where were the sightings you know about?”

Frohike’s tone made it clear that he thought he was

wasting his time.

“Mammoth Caves National Park and Lassen Peak Volcanic

National Park. Hey, Frohike, I met the woman of your

dreams. Even got her picture for you.” He could hear

the Gunman typing information into his computer.

“About time I got some recognition for my expertise,”

he replied, distracted. “Well, I’ll be… Hey,

Mulder, it looks like you may just have stumbled on

something interesting. What do you know about Hollow

Earth?”

* * *

Doob Creek, Kentucky

Sunday, 1:40 AM

Scully glared through reddened eyes. “I realize you

were expecting me sooner,” she growled, her teeth

clenched. “And I realize that it’s late. I may

realize better than anyone that it’s late. But if you

want me to interview Floyd Purdy, it’s going to be

now. I am less than sympathetic to the fact that he

happens to be sleeping at the moment.”

John Finn held his hands up placatingly. “Okay, okay.

I’ll go wake him up. I have him in a cell, since he

didn’t have anywhere else to go. Let me get him.”

She threw herself into the most comfortable chair in

the office – Finn’s, to be precise. The trip getting

back to Doob Creek had been a nightmare. First, the

flight from San Francisco to Cincinnati made an

emergency landing in Salt Lake City due to equipment

failure. Though the pilot did not announce the source

of the problem to avoid alarming the passengers,

Scully in her window seat had an excellent view of

the black smoke billowing from one of the engines.

Thirty white-knuckled minutes later, they landed

safely, with an escort of firetrucks and other

emergency vehicles on the runway flanking them. She

was forced to route through Dallas to then go to

Cincinnati. On the Cincinnati flight, a passenger had

chest pain. As Scully was the only doctor on board,

she spent an hour tending to the sick man until the

plane made an emergency landing in St. Louis to take

the passenger to the hospital. Deciding that the

patron saint of air travel was napping, whoever the

hell he might be, she opted to drive from Saint Louis

before she tempted fate further. Two rest stops for

coffee at truck stops further tried her patience. She

pulled up in front of the Sheriff’s office in a foul

temper and with her head banging.

She heard some mumbling and footsteps from down the

hallway. “All right, here he is,” Finn said, shoving

Purdy into a straight-backed chair. He loomed over

the scruffy man. “Now you listen up and answer the

lady’s questions, or I’ll see to it your new

accommodations are a hell of a lot rougher than your

present ones, y’hear?”

“Yeah, I hear. I won’t make no trouble. I turned over

a new leaf, I keep tellin’ ya.”

She stared at the man for some time, a look that had

made stronger men’s blood turn cold, but he returned

it calmly. She noted that in spite of the ordeal he

had supposedly been through, he looked a lot

better than he had in his photograph. Maybe five

years younger, in spite of the fact that the man

hardly lived anything remotely like a healthy

lifestyle. “All right, Mr. Purdy,” Scully said. “I’m

tired, and I’m not in the mood to hear any tall tales

about Bigfoot. What happened to you and the other men

out in the forest?”

He grinned, displaying cracked and stained teeth, but

the smile was oddly disarming.. “T’weren’t no

Bigfoot, ma’am. I’ll tell ya jist what happened, but

hear me out, okay? Because its goin’ to be hard for

you to believe. It was for me… it still is. But as

God is my judge, it’s the truth, I swear it.”

“Go on,” Scully said non-committally.

“Okay.” Purdy took a deep breath and began. “Junior

and me was in the Park that night, lookin’ for Jack-

Bob’s still. He makes the best corn liquor

hereabouts, but we already owed him for the last

batch we got, and he wouldn’t give us more until we

paid up. Junior’s ole lady wouldn’t give him any

money, and I was dead broke, so’s we were gonna

jist make a little withdrawal from his stash,

figurin’ he’d never miss it. You follow so far?”

“I follow,” Scully replied with a distinct lack of

enthusiasm.

“Jist makin’ sure. You look wore out,” he remarked

solicitously. “Okay, so we was havin’ trouble findin’

the right trail. Jack-Bob covers it up so folks

cain’t find it. Not very kindly of him, but that’s

Jack-Bob for ya. Anyways, all of a sudden, we saw a

light up ahead about fifty feet or so through the

trees. So we figured either Jack-Bob was protectin’

his still, or some other enterprisin’ folks was doin’

what Junior and me was. So we laid low for a while

and watched. After a while, the light went around to

our right, about sixty feet off. We waited another

coupla minutes, then started ahead. “We was lookin’

around for the trail, when all of a sudden, we could

see our shadows ahead of us. Meanin’,” Purdy

explained earnestly, “that there was a light right

behind us. We turned around — and there it was!”

“If you say Bigfoot, you’re a dead man,” Scully

intoned dully, rubbing her temples.

“No, ma’am,” Purdy replied. “It weren’t nothin’ like

Bigfoot. It was a man… a huge glowing man, dressed

like in one of them gladiator movies. He musta been

ten, twelve foot tall. He was shinin’ jist like the

sun and he had this real peaceful-like look on his

face. Well, he reached out and took us by our

collars and nudged us a little, to get us walkin’.

Well, Junior and me was jist about ready to shit

ourselves, we were so scared. Oh — sorry, ma’am. But

real gradual-like, we started feelin’ less scared,

like everything was gonna be okay. We walked through

the forest for miles, sometimes along hikers’ trails,

sometimes through the underbrush. When we was jist

about ready to drop, the man pulled us around this

like mountain of rock. He let go of us then and

motioned to us, like we was supposed to follow him.

It was like mind control, or somethin’, ’cause we

did, even though we both wanted nothin’ more than to

clear out.

“Anyways, he went to this rock formation and seemed

to disappear! Junior and me followed his light

through an opening that you couldn’t see ‘cept from

this one angle. Now, there’s caves all over the Park

— that’s how it gets its name — and I know most of

’em like the back of my hand. But this one was a new

one on Junior and me.

“So we was in this cave, the floor slopin’ so steep

it was hard to keep from slidin’. We followed him

down what seemed like miles.” He stopped, a confused

expression on his face.

Despite her fatigue, Scully was intrigued by the

man’s story, if only for the amount of imagination

Purdy showed in its fabrication. “What happened

then?”

He scratched his head with a grimy finger. “Well, I

don’t rightly know. I don’t know whether we fell

asleep, or got knocked out or what. All I know is the

next time I opened my eyes, we was in this amazing

place! It was like Disney World, only without all

those folks walkin’ around in cartoon suits and mouse

ears. I… I don’t know if I’m s’pposed to say any

more. I think it’s kinda a secret.”

Scully was unimpressed. “Uh-huh. So why were you

brought there, Mr. Purdy? Why did they let you go?

And what happened to Mr. Naismith?”

Purdy’s expression cleared and he nodded. “Now *that*

I can tell ya. The guy said — well, he didn’t like

actually talk, he spoke into our heads, you know? He

said we were there to learn. He said humanity had

been cursed with bad lots like us, and once we

learned, we’d be sent back to rejoin humanity. I

cain’t remember much about the time I was there. I

jist know that after I was there a while, a feelin’

came over my heart, and I knew I would change my

ways. The next thing I remember is standin’ on a path

in the forest. I followed it and hitched a ride from

a tourist back to town. Then the Sheriff spotted me

and hauled me in here. You wouldn’t have some coffee,

by any chance, Big John? All this talkin’ makes a

man’s throat dry.”

“Yeah, I just made some. You, Agent Scully?”

“Yes, please. So, Mr. Purdy, where’s Mr. Naismith?

And Mr. Smithers?”

“I guess they’re still there. I cain’t remember

seein’ ’em, but if Junior ain’t here, he must be

there. I guess they haven’t learned yet. Hardly

surprisin’,” he concluded with a grin. “We’ll

probably never see Jack-Bob again. No one can git

anything through that thick head of his.”

“So what are you going to do now?”

“Git myself a real job. Maybe take night classes so I

can git my high chool diploma.”

Despite the man’s track record up to his

disappearance, Scully could discern the unshakable

faith of the recently converted in his demeanor.

Not that she believed a word of his story, but

obviously some sort of epiphany had taken place. She

had no doubt that he meant what he said about turning

over a new leaf. Whether he could sustain that

intent, only time would tell.

Purdy accepted the styrofoam cup from the Sheriff.

“Can I go back to bed now?”

“You need him any more?” Finn asked Scully. At her

head shake, the Sheriff led Purdy back to his cell.

She sipped her coffee, her mind on the man’s tale.

Soon, Finn returned and sat down with his own mug in

hand. He grabbed the coffee pot and refilled her cup.

“So what do you think?”

She smiled tiredly. “Do you mean, do I believe his

story? No. Clearly something happened, something he

can’t explain even to himself. So he concocted this

story, perhaps even subconsciously, to come to terms

with whatever did happen to him. I do, however,

believe that whatever it was, it was powerful enough

to force him to re-think his life. I think he’s going

to make an honest attempt to clean up his act.”

“I sure as hell hope so,” Finn sighed. “We’ll see. Do

you think your partner is going to believe his

story?”

She smiled once more. “Undoubtedly.” She looked at

her watch. “It’s after midnight there, but he should

still be up.” She pulled her cellphone from her purse

and hit the speed dial.

“Mmm? Mulder.”

“I’m sorry, were you sleeping?”

His chuckle warmed her. “More like dozed off over a

hot computer. What time is it?”

“Two-thirty AM for me, twelve-thirty for you. How’s

your ankle?”

“Hurts like hell. I forgot to get the prescription

filled. Besides, codeine makes my thinking go all

fuzzy. Did you speak to Purdy yet? I was worried, I

was expecting to hear from you hours ago.”

“I had a couple of flights from hell. Long story.

Anyway, yes, I just finished my interview with him.”

“And…?”

“Some nonsense about a glowing man in a toga taking

him to a magical city in a cave. Whatever really

happened, it does seem to have had a remarkable

effect on him. Not only is he swearing to become an

upright citizen, but he looks at least five years

younger in person than he did in that mugshot we saw.

Or maybe that was just a bad picture.”

There was an undercurrent of excitement in Mulder’s

voice. “I don’t think so, Scully. As a matter of

fact, everything that Purdy says makes perfect

sense.”

“Mulder, you have got to be kidding. He described the

place as Disney World without the cartoon characters,

for heaven’s sake!”

“It’s called the Hollow Earth theory, Scully. I’ve

been studying up on it all day. Edmund Halley, the

astronomer and discoverer of Halley’s comet, proposed

one of the earliest theories in 1692. He said that in

order to account for variations in the magnetic

field, the earth had to be hollow. In fact, he

theorized that the earth was actually four spheres,

nested one inside the other.”

“Mulder, even a brilliant astronomer can make

mistakes. He probably believed in leeching and

witchcraft too.” She glared at Finn’s obvious

amusement.

Her partner went on as if he hadn’t heard a word she

said. “And in the eighteenth century, Leonhard Euler,

a Swiss mathematician, theorized a hollow earth with

an internal sun 600 miles wide, and the advanced

civilization that lived there.”

Scully sighed. “Fortunately, we live in the twenty-

first century, and no one believes that nonsense

anymore. And what does that have to do with glowing

men in togas and their pet elephants?” Finn appeared

as if he was going to burst into hysterical giggling.

Throwing a hand over his mouth, he exited the office,

his laughter ringing in the silent street.

Again, Mulder’s enthusiasm was unchecked. “I’m so

glad you asked. In 1846 a woolly mammoth was found in

Siberia in a remarkable state of preservation.

Several scientists at the time believed that the

state of the remains was explained by the fact that

in truth, they had not been lying around for millions

of years, but rather the animal had died relatively

recently, having wandered outside the hole at the

North Pole that leads to Hollow Earth.”

Scully’s tenuous control on her temper was beginning

to fray. “Mulder, I’m too tired for this insanity. No

modern scientist in his right mind would give any

credence whatsoever–”

“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong, Scully. No less

an authority than Admiral Richard Byrd had the

backing of the United States government when they

sponsored his flights to the North and South Poles,

in part to look for these openings to Hollow Earth.

Even Hitler believed that the Master Race originated

from the people who dwelled in the advanced

civilization at the center of the earth, and he sent

missions looking for these openings.”

“Oh, Adolf Hitler. There’s an authority for you. The

very pinnacle of rational thought.”

Her sarcasm was lost on him. “And guess where two of

these openings are thought to be? Mammoth Caves

National Park in Kentucky, and Lassen Peak Volcanic

National Park in California! And that’s not all. The

advanced civilization? Well, there are a number of

theories about who those people are – from the

survivors of the destruction of Atlantis to the Lost

Tribes of Israel to the lost Viking colony in

Greenland–”

“Mulder!”

“–but nearly every authority describes these people

as being ten to twelve feet tall, with a rich,

advanced civilization. In fact, some feel that that

what we think are UFOs carrying aliens from other

planets are actually the flying craft of Agartha —

that’s another name for this place — coming from

inside the earth, rather than from space.”

“MULDER!”

Scully’s angry shout finally brought him to a halt.

“What?”

“There is absolutely no scientific proof of this.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say absolutely none,” he replied, a

little stiffly.

Scully sighed. “Look, I know you get frustrated when

I don’t believe in this stuff, when… when all I

seem to do is throw a bucket of cold water on the

fire of your enthusiasm. Mulder, you once told me

that I keep you honest. I wouldn’t be able to do that

if I didn’t challenge these wild theories. Maybe

there’s something to them, maybe not. I simply think

it’s too early to say. And Floyd Purdy is not the

most credible witness I’ve ever interviewed…

…Mulder? Did you hear me?”

“Sorry, Scully. I could have sworn I saw a light

outside.”

“If I set off now, I should be able to get to Bowling

Green in time for the first flight out in the

morning. With luck, I can be back in California by

early afternoon, and we can go over the evidence and-

-”

“There *is* a light outside! Hold on, Scully, I’m

going to check it out…”

She heard the cell phone clatter to the table, the

dull rhythmic thud of his crutches on the wood of the

cabin floor, the creak of the cabin door as it swung

open. “Mulder! Mulder, don’t you dare try to chase

anything through the woods. You’re on crutches, and–

”

In the distance, she thought she heard a shout, less

of fear than surprise. “Mulder!” she yelled into the

cell phone.

For close to a lifetime — at least fifteen minutes –

– she held the phone, calling his name, the

connection open to the eerie silence of the cabin so

far away.

Then she grabbed her keys and ran for the car.

ACT FOUR

Cabin

Lassen Peak Volcanic National Park

Noon, Sunday

“Captain Lopez!”

The stocky officer turned as the car skidded to a

halt and the red-headed woman charged toward him.

“Agent Scully, you made good time. I wasn’t expecting

you for another hour or so.”

“Have you found him yet?” she demanded.

He looked at her, taking in the disheveled clothing,

the reddened eyes, the pallor of her skin. “Come on

in the cabin, Agent Scully. You look like you could

use a hot meal and some rest.”

“I don’t have time for that,” she snapped. “Where’s

my partner?”

Lopez grabbed her by the shoulders mid stride as she

tried to push past him. “How long is it since you

ate, or got any meaningful sleep?”

“It doesn’t matter, I have to find him.”

“How long?”

Suddenly, the fight seemed to drain from her. “I

slept a little on the planes. Eat… I think the

last time was breakfast yesterday, outside of some

pretzels on the planes.”

“That’s what I thought.” He kept an avuncular arm

around her shoulders as he led her to the cabin.

“Look, you can’t do him any good if you pass out. I

have to brief you anyway. It would be better for you

and easier for me if we could do that over some hot

food and coffee.”

There was no denying what the police captain said

made sense. “All right. I have to change anyway.”

“That’s more like it,” he said kindly.

In any event, Scully already knew what he was going

to say… that there was no trace of her partner. She

had lived this moment so often in both real life and

her nightmares that she was a little surprised she

wasn’t more accustomed to it. But her heart thudded

painfully in her chest, and the rest of her was just

a vacuum Mulder’s presence should have filled. She

pulled some jeans, socks, clean panties and a sweater

from her bag and disappeared into the bathroom.

Quickly she washed, drying off, changing her clothes

and then bathing her face once more in the ice-cold

tap water. Feeling no less tired but infinitely less

grubby, she emerged from the bathroom to find Lopez

busy at the gas stove.

“Have a seat at the table. It’s almost ready.”

She laced up her hiking boots over the thick wool

socks. When she finished, a steaming mug of coffee

was waiting for her. She grasped the chipped mug like

it was the last life preserver on the Titanic and

carefully sipped. A moment later a bowl of stew was

placed in front of her, and Captain Lopez sat across

from her with his own bowl.

“Now I want to see you eating before I start

talking,” he said with mock severity.

She sighed and picked up her spoon, tasting the

savory stew. Her brows rose. “This isn’t just canned

stew. You’re quite a cook.”

He chuckled. “It is just canned stew, I just added a

little of this and a little of that. Surprising what

a few chilis and fresh herbs can do. It’s good to see

you eating.”

In truth, she was hungrier than she thought. And God

knew she needed every bit of energy she could grab

for the search ahead.

Finally, about three quarters of the generous serving

gone, she pushed back the bowl. “You obviously

haven’t found Mulder. Why don’t you start at the

beginning?”

He shrugged. “All right. After you left, we drove up

to the ranger station and interviewed Connie Crowley.

I found ” — he gestured to a pile of handwritten

papers — “your partner’s notes from the interview.

Connie was very convincing about what she saw. Then I

dropped him off back here — he said he had some

research to do and some people he wanted to contact.

I had one of the rangers check on him when the

park closed for the night. He was okay, so the ranger

went home. Then nothing until I got the call from you

at around one in the morning.”

She perused the notes, then looked up. “Did you see

any sign of him at all?”

There was a vulnerability in her question that caught

at Lopez’ heart. “We found his crutches. And that was

weird.”

“Weird? How?”

“Well, I would have expected to see them thrown on

the ground, or maybe evidence that he had used them

defensively, like a club, you know? But we found them

together, leaning against a tree. Like he didn’t need

them anymore, stacked them neatly against the tree,

and walked off.”

“Was there any sign of… of…”

“Of a struggle?” Lopez finished for her. “No,

nothing. There were signs that the ground had been

walked on, but no sign of a struggle. No broken

branches, no churned-up ground, no blood or ripped

clothing. Nothing to indicate that a fight had taken

place.”

Scully rubbed her eyes tiredly. “Then what do you

think happened, Captain Lopez? You yourself saw how

bad Mulder’s ankle was. He couldn’t have walked ten

feet without those crutches.”

He shook his head. “What it was, I have no idea. But

we know what it wasn’t, and that should bring some

comfort. We know it wasn’t some wild animal — a bear

or mountain lion. Nor was it either of the missing

men — they definitely would have left signs of a

fight, and if worse came to worst, they wouldn’t hang

around to hide a body. But beyond that, I’m stumped.”

He took a good look at her. “Now you can tell me

to tuck it where the sun don’t shine if you want, but

I gotta know something. Is there something personal

here? I mean, when I got your call last night, you

were practically hysterical, Agent Scully. And you

don’t strike me as a woman prone to hysteria. And I

gotta say, you and your partner seem a lot…

closer… than I figure is customary in the FBI.”

“I was just tired,” Scully replied evasively.

“Normally I’m a lot more in control than that.”

“Uh-huh,” responded Lopez, clearly having his own

ideas on the matter, regardless of Scully’s

reticence. “Well, I suppose I won’t be able to

convince you to get some sleep, not while your

partner’s still missing.”

“That’s right,” Scully said, standing up. “So why

don’t you start by taking me to the place you found

the crutches?”

* * *

It was sundown when a trickle of tired cops and park

rangers emerged from the forest. Behind them, one

very angry voice could be heard.

“You can’t leave him!”

Lopez turned to her, his arms outstretched in a plea

for understanding. “I don’t want to break off the

search, Agent Scully. But the fact of the matter is

that there’s no point to continuing after dark. We

won’t be able to see a thing, and we risk getting

lost or injured ourselves. We’re all tired, and I

don’t know how you’re even still on your feet.”

“My partner is still missing.”

They walked out of the forest, now on the pine

needle-strewn ground in front of the cabin. The

patrol cars and Park Jeeps were backing out for

the drive home.

“Look, Agent Scully,” he said, not unkindly. “We’ll

all be back at sun-up. There simply isn’t anything

else to be done right now. If you want to do

something for your partner, take care of yourself.

Get some food and then get some rest. You’re so tired

you’re barely rational. Or would you rather come into

town? I could find someone to put you up.”

“I’m not leaving here,” she said, shooting him a

withering glance.

He patted her on the shoulder, then got into his

cruiser and backed down the drive.

Scully’s eyes filled with tears of frustration. Her

practical side told her that Lopez was right. She

hadn’t had any meaningful sleep in two days and

Mulder would be furious if she ignored her own

welfare to continue to search through the night. But

her emotional side…

Feet dragging, she went into the cabin. There was

quite a lot more food than she and Mulder had

brought, as well as all sorts of camping gear. Lopez

must have brought it when he used the cabin as the

staging area for Mulder’s search. She put a fresh pot

of coffee on the gas stove and cracked a couple of

eggs into a pan. Then, when her sparse meal was

ready, she sat at the table. She picked up Mulder’s

cell phone and checked the last number dialed out.

She should have known – the Gunmen. She pushed a

button.

“The Lone Gunman.”

“Byers, this is Scully.”

“Oh, hi, Scully. Back in California with Mulder? Hold

on, I’ll put you on speaker.”

“That’s the problem. I’m back in California, but

Mulder is missing.”

“No shit?” exclaimed Langly. “What happened?”

Quickly, Scully briefed them, including her

conversation with Floyd Purdy.

“Mulder said he saw a light, and followed it?” Byers

asked. “If so, that would fit in with-”

“Don’t give me that Hollow Earth garbage, okay guys?

I’m not in the mood.”

“You may not be in the mood, Agent Scully, but if you

ignore the possibility, you may never find him,”

Frohike commented.

“Seriously, Frohike… do you think there’s anything

to this Hollow Earth business?” God, I must be tired,

Scully thought. Look who I’m asking.

“There’s a lot of evidence, some of it even you would

have a hard time refuting. Yeah, I think there’s a

fair chance it exists.”

“So how’s that going to help me find Mulder?”

There was a short silence as the Gunmen considered.

“Well,” Frohike said, “these ‘glowing men’ have never

been spotted by more than one or two people at a

time. Could be a big search party just keeps them

away.”

“If what Purdy said was true, Scully, it would seem

we have little to fear from these creatures,” Byers

added.

“Even in the extremely remote possibility that these

creatures from Hollow Earth have Mulder,” she

persisted, “why take him? He certainly doesn’t fit

the profile of the others they’ve been taking.”

“True,” conceded Langly. “But these glowing guys seem

to be able to sense things about the men they’ve been

taking. They certainly don’t hang around town or

scour rap sheets to find out who to take. So they

must have figured out who to take by telepathy or

something. What if they took Mulder for another

reason? Because they sensed he was a believer?

…Scully?”

“Sorry… I drifted off there for a second. Look, I’m

too tired to think straight. I just can’t believe in

ten foot tall glowing men, but I’m fresh out of other

theories.”

“Get some sleep, Scully. We’ll see if we can come up

with anything,” Frohike said.

“Like a way to contact these Hollow Earth people,”

Langly chimed in.

“And we’ll call you back in the morning,” added

Byers. “Mulder will be pissed at us as well as at you

if you don’t take care of yourself.”

“Yeah, I know. Thanks, guys.”

She looked down at the unappetizing mess of cold eggs

on her plate and shoved it away. The bed beckoned.

She pulled off her hiking boots and crawled under the

covers.

But somehow, sleep wouldn’t come. She tossed and

turned for over an hour, haunted by the smell of

Mulder on the sheets. Finally she gave up, throwing

off the covers and pulling her boots back on.

Scully scanned the cabin. She snatched up a ground

sheet and a sleeping bag, then a flashlight, and went

out into the night.

The path to the area where Mulder disappeared was

well-trodden by the search party and easy to find.

She followed it, coming to the tree where his

crutches had been found. Spreading the ground sheet

out, she unrolled the sleeping bag on it and crawled

in, supporting her back and shoulders against the

tree. The woods were alive with the sounds of night

creatures.

All right, she thought. If you exist, you glowing

men, if you can read minds… bring him back. Aloud,

she called, “Bring him back! Please, bring him back.”

Over and over she thought the words, her lips moving

as if in prayer, not noticing a long time later when

an eerie silence came over the forest. Finally sleep

claimed her…

* * *

Voices. There were voices. Deep, soft. Trying not to

wake her. Somewhere to the left, a source of light.

If she could just get her eyes to cooperate, and

open… They fluttered a few times, giving her just

a glance of Mulder, and a tall, glowing figure…

A low chuckle, and a farewell. Then footsteps coming

close…

“Scully? Scully, love. Can you open your eyes?”

Finally, the exhaustion that had paralyzed her was

extinguished by the rough whisper of his voice.

“Mulder!” Her arms flew around his neck as she buried

her head in his chest. “Oh, God! I didn’t know where

you were, if I’d see you again…”

“Shh.” He stroked her hair, calming her, holding her

until the rough sobs had trailed off to sniffles.

“I’m so sorry, love. You okay now?”

She nodded and released him. “Mulder, where were

you?”

“Come on, let’s go back to the cabin and I’ll tell

you a bedtime story.”

She started to wriggle from the sleeping bag but he

stopped her with a gentle pressure. “Let me,” he

whispered. Effortlessly he scooped her up, still

cocooned in the sleeping bag.

“Mulder, your ankle–”

“Good as new, Scully. That’s part of the story.”

“But how–?”

“Shh. Just wait.”

He carried her through the trees and into the cabin,

depositing her on the bed. Then he lit the lanterns,

brightening the cabin so for the first time she got a

good look at him.

“Mulder, you look… amazing! You’re tanned, and

you’re walking on your bad ankle without a trace of a

limp. In fact, you look like you’ve just gotten back

from a health spa!”

“And you look like you need one. You haven’t been

eating or sleeping, have you?”

She leveled an accusing gaze at him. “And if our

positions were reversed, would you?”

He shrugged. “Score one for Scully. You’re right, I

wouldn’t. First, let’s call off the hunt, so we won’t

be disturbed in the morning.” He picked up the cell

phone and dialed, announcing to a no-doubt startled

desk sergeant who he was, that he was back at the

cabin with his partner, and would be getting in touch

with Captain Lopez the following afternoon. He

returned the cell phone to the table. “Now, what do

you say we both get more comfortable, and I’ll tell

you what happened.”

Gently, almost reverently, he undressed her and

pulled the heavy bed linens over her. Then he

stripped and slid in beside her. “Comfy?”

Her brow was furrowed. “When I was waking up in the

forest, I could have sworn… No, I couldn’t have.

It’s not possible.”

He chuckled. “Oh, yes it is. The evidence of your own

eyes, Scully. Believe it. And wait until you hear the

rest.”

“In that case, Mulder, if you don’t start talking,

I’m going to hurt you.”

“So impatient,” he said, gathering her close to him.

“All right, where do you want me to start?”

“I’ve already read your notes of the Crowley

interview and talked to the Gunmen. So why don’t you

start where you left me holding the phone –

literally.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry. I really didn’t plan on a ditch,

but it looks like that’s the way it turned out.

Forgive me?”

“I’m thinking about it. Start talking.”

He kissed her on the top of her head. “You’re a hard

woman, Scully. Okay. I saw the source of light

outside the cabin. It was definitely the tall glowing

figure I had seen before when I screwed up my ankle

chasing him. So I grabbed my crutches and took off as

fast as I could into the forest. Now I don’t know if

you were aware of this, but crutches leave something

to be desired for negotiating woodland terrain.”

“Actually, I did know that,” she replied dryly.

“Anyway, I fell — sprawled headlong, is more like it

— and had the wind knocked out of me. So I was lying

on the ground, trying to remember how to breathe,

when I noticed the light coming back towards me. He

stopped and stood about ten feet away, his hands

raised, as if in a gesture of peace or something. So

I guess I just nodded — I certainly wasn’t capable

of much else at the time — and he came closer,

holding out a hand to me.

“Well, I struggled to my feet. He told me to follow –

– no, that’s not entirely right. I didn’t figure it

out for a while, but he rarely ever really spoke. He

was telepathic. What I thought was speaking was his

thoughts in my mind. So anyway, I tried to follow and

of course, fell flat on my face as soon as I tried to

put weight on the bad ankle. He looked at me

quizzically, I guess trying to figure out why I had

such an affinity for being on the ground. I motioned

to my ankle, and mimed that I couldn’t walk. He could

probably read my thoughts, but I hadn’t clued into

that at that point. His face cleared and he came and

knelt next to me. He put his hands on my ankle and

the glow increased, and I felt a deep warmth and

tingling there. A minute later, he got up, helped me

to my feet, and my ankle was as good as new!. He

picked up my crutches and leaned them against the

tree, and we started walking.

“There wasn’t much conversation as we walked. He

sensed that I had a million questions, but he always

communicated ‘Later’. So I kept my thoughts to myself

for a change and followed him through the forest

for miles. We moved fast, and he kept looking at the

sky, as if we had to be wherever we were going before

it got light. Finally we came to a rocky area. I

followed him around an outcropping that led to a

little inlet between the rock walls. He went to the

left, through what appeared to be solid rock, until I

got close enough to see the opening. It was so well-

hidden, blended in so well with the surrounding

colors, you’d never know it was there. We bent low to

get through but then there was a steep downward path

through caverns hung with stalactites of amazing

colors. There were all sorts of twists and turns,

nearly invisible openings, openings that seemed like

they would go somewhere but didn’t. Even if someone

found the opening to the cave, they could never find

the path we took. Still with me, Scully?”

The exhaustion that had plagued her for days seemed

very distant now. Mulder’s tale completely absorbed

her, drew her into a fantastic world. “Yes… but

it’s so… unreal…”

He chuckled. “Believe it or not, even I was having a

hard time with that. I felt like I had fallen down

the rabbit hole in ‘Alice in Wonderland’. And that’s

the one time he did speak to me. Evidently my

metaphor amused him. He turned around and smiled at

me, and said, ‘There are more things in heaven and

earth, Mr. Mulder, than are dreamt of in even your

philosophy’.”

“Paraphrasing Shakespeare?”

Mulder nodded, his eyes reflecting wonder. “They were

probably buddies. Anyway, at some point he sort of

made a gesture to my head, and there’s a gap in my

memory. I don’t know whether he carried me the rest

of the way, or we were transported somehow. But the

next thing I knew, I was in this fabulous city.

“Scully, I wish I could describe it to you in a way

that would do it justice. The colors were so clear

and bright they hurt my eyes. Incredible

architecture, combining both strength and an amazing

ethereal beauty. Clean, so clean – clean air, clean

water, clean streets and buildings. Flying vehicles

like cars, but the ground was for pedestrian traffic

only, and inlaid with beautiful mosaics. Gardens were

everywhere – on the ground, hanging from the sides

of buildings, on rooftops. Flowers, vines, fruits and

vegetables of incredible size. Fountains, both of

water and of light… Perfect…” Mulder’s voice

shook with emotion. He cleared his throat.

“Anyway, he led me to a building, with soaring

buttresses and skylights. The walls glowed with an

artificial light that bathed everything in a soft

gold. There were indoor gardens and soft, exotic

music that seemed to come from the walls themselves.

He led me to a kind of conference room, all set out

with wine and food. He explained, again

telepathically, that I was in the city of Lesser

Shamballa, a major city in their land of Agartha.”

“So it’s true?” she asked, dazed. “The legends are

all true? Are you sure you weren’t hallucinating or

something?”

Mulder nodded. “Positive. Scully, if there is a

Heaven, it must be like Agartha. The frustrating

thing is that I know I saw and learned so much more

there than I remember now. Lathos — that was my

guide — said that would be the case. You know how

we’re told that we don’t use more than a tenth of our

brain capacity? In Agartha — whether because of

mutation or the atmosphere or what — a much greater

proportion of the brain is utilized. Which explains

why the culture is so advanced. Why they’ve mastered

telepathy and psychic healing. It also explains that

while I was able to absorb so much when I was there,

recalling it now is a problem.”

“Though your eidetic memory must be playing some sort

of a role. You remember a hell of a lot more than

Purdy did. What about the people, Mulder?”

He smiled and held her close. He was amazed but

gratified that Scully seemed to accept at face value

what had happened to him. “Just like Lathos. Not a

lot of diversity. There were women and men, all tall,

strong, and beautiful, radiating peace and well-

being. Not a lot of children, though. Lathos said

that although death is not unknown, it comes only

after many, many centuries of life. I think somehow

natural forces control the birth rate there, just

replacing those who die to prevent overpopulation.

Most of the beings take on the appearance of being

between 30 and 40 years of age, and just stay that

way.

“They’re unfailingly polite, but reserved, especially

in dealing with those of us from ‘above the sun’, as

they call our world. I did see the missing men — not

to speak to, but enough to know they’re being treated

far better than they deserve. That was the reason I

was brought there. Lathos sought me out, to explain.”

“Explain?”

“They saw how we were searching for the missing men

and couldn’t risk being discovered. They had a close

call when Ranger Crowley saw one of them. So they

decided they would have to explain to one of us, so

we wouldn’t inadvertently screw things up.

“Their taking of Smithers and the rest — it’s an

experiment, Scully. They know that the biggest danger

to Agartha lies ‘above the sun’. If we manage to

destroy our world, through nuclear war, or biological

or chemical warfare, or even poor management of

resources and the ecology, it will have an effect on

their world. There are scores of openings all over

the planet from our world to theirs. Radiation or

toxins could leak down there, or massive nuclear

detonations could crack the inner sphere which holds

their atmosphere, destroying them. Their plan is to

try to enlighten the humans who are the bottom-

feeders like Smithers. If they find it can be done,

they’ll pick more high-profile humans in need of

enlightenment. Just think, Scully – what would the

world be like if the Agarthans could have enlightened

a Hitler or a Stalin, a Smoking Man or an Alex

Krycek? What if once and for all we could take all

the money and manpower we use for war and law

enforcement and incarceration of criminals, and use

it to eliminate disease and poverty, and to advance

civilization?”

“But what if it doesn’t work, Mulder? It worked for

Purdy, but the others are all still there. What if

the experiment fails?”

He sighed. “That is something they really don’t want

to think about. That’s Plan B. Killing is anathema to

them, but they will kill if they feel the destruction

of their world or ours is imminent. ‘Excisions’

Lathos called it, of those who would bring

destruction to our worlds. The experiment is just

beginning. Time is… different there. I can’t

explain it, but it doesn’t really correlate with

ours. I got the impression it’s a very long-term

experiment — decades or centuries long — unless it

appears we’re about to self-destruct.”

“Mulder, we’re not going to be writing any of this in

a report, are we? Not only will the Bureau think

we’re nuts, but the last thing we want is for someone

to actually take this report seriously and start

searching for Agartha.”

He nodded. “You read my mind. And that’s why I’m

going to need your help. I need you to come up with

some sort of rational, scientific explanation for

this, Scully. For my disappearance, my reappearance

in glowing good health. Something we can put in a

report. I know the truth, and now you know it. But it

needs to stay with us, Lathos made that clear. The

world isn’t ready for this. And having seen the

civilization that we would be putting at risk, I’d

die rather than divulge that secret.”

“We’ll come up with something. I never reported your

disappearance to Skinner — I was so tired, I just

sort of forgot — and we never mentioned your injury

to him. You can fake that your ankle is still

sprained for the folks around here. Once you leave

town you can get rid of the crutches. You’ve been

outdoors a lot — that explains the tan. If Skinner

should find out about your disappearance, well, you

just got lost in the woods. And our report will say

what everyone wants it to say — that the men who

disappeared did so of their own volition. Though you

thought one time that you saw something in the woods,

it was impossible to say with any certainty what it

was. It’s to Doob Creek’s financial advantage to keep

the Bigfoot myth alive, so they are unlikely to be

broadcasting anything about any glowing ten foot

tall creatures. And no one there believes Purdy,

anyway. The tales of the glowing man will stay

exactly that — legends with no basis in fact.”

“That’s my skeptical partner! I knew I could count on

you.”

She snuggled against him, drowsiness rapidly pulling

at her. Sleepily, she murmured, “I wish I could have

been there with you… seen it all with you….”

He stroked the skin of her arms, her shoulders, her

back. “Lathos didn’t say not to come back. I think

that someday, once he knows we’re keeping his secret

and we’ve rewarded his trust, we could come back

here. I think if we hang around a few days he’ll be

able to sense us. Then maybe he’ll reappear, and take

you on a tour…. Scully?”

Finally, she slept.

EPILOGUE

Jaipur, India

Thursday

3 AM

Ravi “The Blade” Patel trotted down Agra Marg, away

from the LMB Hotel. Damn bitch, he thought. If she

had just let go of her purse, he wouldn’t have had to

cut her up like that. They brought it on themselves,

he thought. Rich people, with all the advantages of

life, holding on to them, unwilling to share.

Once more he looked behind him, satisfied that as yet

no police were following. With any luck, he’d be in

the forest east of town before they’d come after him.

And with the reputation of that forest he doubted

they’d have the balls to follow him into the dense

woods, especially at night. The place was infamous in

all of Rajasthan, maybe all of India, for the stories

of strange creatures who prowled the woods at night.

Ravi cut sharply from the road and dived into the

trees, keeping to his same easy jog. The forest floor

here was relatively free of impediments. Finally, at

least a kilometer into the forest, he stopped and

squatted in a patch of moonlight to survey his

takings.

The beaded purse was smeared with blood. Ravi tore it

open. “Pah!” he spat in disgust. Perfume, cosmetics,

a comb. Nothing of any value at all! Why did the old

bitch hold on so fiercely, he wondered. He could have

saved himself the trouble of cutting her throat. And

now Jaipur would be too hot for him… he’d have to

move on. Maybe to Amer… no, there were still

warrants out for him there. He would have to go to a

really big city where he could blend in, unnoticed.

Maybe Delhi.

Discarding the purse, he walked further into the

forest, looking for a convenient thicket where he

could bed down for the night. His head pulled sharply

to the right. Was that a light through the trees?

The path forked and he chose the left. He moved more

swiftly, his heart pounding, wanting to put as much

distance as possible between himself and that

mysterious light. Fifteen minutes later he began to

breathe a bit easier. He spotted a stand of ferns

that would make a soft bed. He laid down, his dark

eyes searching out the night.

Suddenly, from behind him, a bright glow lit the

forest floor…

End of “HOLLOW EARTH”

Author’s notes: I became fascinated with the subject

of Agartha while researching for this story. The

events in this story are a mixture of the many and

various Hollow Earth beliefs and my own imagination.

The three main places where the action takes place,

however — Mammoth Caves, Lassen Peak Volcanic

National Park, and Jaipur, India — are all reputed

areas where these openings to Agartha can be found.

Readers wishing to learn more about this compelling

subject are urged to go to the following websites,

which provided me with much of the background

information used in this story:

http://www2.eu.spiritweb.org/Spirit/hollow-earth.html

http://www.onelight.com/hollow/hollowlaunch1.html

or just type “Hollow Earth” into a search engine.

There was also a very useful http://www.mapsofindia.com site

I used to give me information about the location and

layout of Jaipur.

Title: Shakespirited 1 of 4

Author: mimic117

Email: mimic117@yahoo.com

Rating: PG13

Category: X, MSR

Spoilers: none that I recall, other than whatever the previous VS9

author did to them last week.

Archive: Written for I Made This Productions Virtual Season 9 so

they have exclusive rights for the first two weeks. After that, Mr.

Sulu, you may indulge yourself.

Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully belong to Chris Carter, FOX, and

1013 Productions, and are being borrowed without permission.

Cleveland, Ohio, is a real place, contrary to some opinions, and is

being used with all the love of a native Buckeye. Some specific

places within the city are real, but others are my own invention

and not meant to portray anywhere in particular. Consciously, at

least.

Special Thanks: To Suzanne, for taking my germ of an idea and

turning it into an entire bacterial colony. I appreciate the push and

the flying beta, but you owe me for this.

Godiva chocolate thanks to Brandon for letting me bounce ideas

off his head one night. (Hope the lump goes down soon.) And to

Tracy, for being my extra special advisor whenever I got stuck.

To Cindy, Supreme High Bitch Of The Betas. I could never have

written this without you. I’m sure the trauma of trying to beta a

moving target will pass soon.

Feedback: Kept in a little shrine and worshipped daily at

mimic117@yahoo.com

Summary: When the members of a small Shakespearean

company start dying, Mulder and Scully go undercover to

investigate. But will they discover what is killing people, or will

they be next?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Shakespirited 1 of 4

by mimic117

Prologue

May 1, 2002

Former Rosenbluth’s Drug Store

temporary rehearsal hall

Cleveland, Ohio

The clatter of running feet caused all heads to turn as a young

man came hurtling down the spiral staircase. Wild-eyed and

disheveled, he skidded to a stop on the periphery of the small knot

of people. His mouth worked for several soundless seconds

before another voice spoke.

“What the hell is it, David?” A slim blond man drove long fingers

through his hair in frustration. “You’re supposed to be getting

ready for Paris’ scenes in the crypt. What is so important that you

needed to disrupt the rehearsal?”

“Andrea…” Pale and visibly shaking, David turned eyes full of

horror to the ceiling. His neck twitched as he swallowed a sob,

forcing words past the terror in his throat. “You have to…she…

Andrea, she’s…”

The blond shouldered his way through the silent group,

impatience radiating before him in waves.

“Doug…” Reaching out a tentative hand to slow the headlong

rush, David was brushed to one side, then lost in the trailing crowd

of onlookers.

“Where is she?” The question ricocheted off the empty store’s

dusty brick walls, falling to the floor in his wake. “By God, if she’s

been drinking again, I’ll kill her.”

The serpentine line of fellow actors twined up the iron staircase.

David’s face crumpled. Tears slid down his cheeks, dripping onto

his shirt.

Reaching the upper level, Doug began slamming open doors as

he rampaged down the hall of the long-abandoned apartment.

Each failure to find what he sought pulled a snarl of disgust from

his lips that caused his followers to hop back a step. He stopped

short in the open doorway of the very last room.

High-pitched shrieks couldn’t cover the sound of gasps followed

by retreating footsteps behind him. In a few minutes, Doug was

the only one left in the echoing upper floor of the derelict building.

He could hear voices shouting for someone to call 911, but the

noise didn’t register on his conscious mind. Sighing, he rubbed a

hand over sorrowful eyes, sliding down the doorframe to sit vigil in

the soft dust until help arrived.

“I’m sorry, Andrea,” he whispered to no one. “It looks like

someone beat me to it.”

When the sound of sirens closing in reached his ears, Doug finally

was able to tear his gaze away from the beautiful red-haired

woman, lying in a lake of blood with a knife sticking out of her

chest.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Act 1

May 4, 2002

temporary rehearsal hall

Cleveland, Ohio

4:20 PM

“Michael, what are you doing?”

“Sorry?”

“What are you doing?”

“Umm, saying my lines?”

“WRONG! You’re saying something, but they’re not Osric’s lines!

Osric is a fop. He loves show, and prettiness, and ceremony. He

would speak like a fop. YOU, however, sound like you’re reading

someone their rights!”

“Do you want me to go again?”

“Yes! Of course, go again! Start from ‘Nay my good lord.’ And

this time try to sound like Osric.”

*ahem*

“‘Nay my good lord; for mine ease, in good faith. Sir, here is newly

come to court Laertes; believe me…'”

“Debbie, dear…”

“Me?”

“Yes, you, my precious. You are a lady in waiting, are you not?”

“Uh, yes…”

“Do you know what that means?”

“I…think so, yes.”

“It means she is waiting, as in standing. She is not a ‘lady in

motion.’ You are causing a distraction by walking around the

stage. Kindly pick a spot and stay there! Do you think you can do

that?”

“I’m sorry, Doug.”

“Should I keep going now?”

“No, Michael, no. This whole thing is giving me a migraine. Why

in God’s name they had to send amateurs I’ll never know. All right

people, listen up. You’ve got an early evening, so I want all of you

back here an hour earlier tomorrow. That means 9:00 AM Brian,

not 10:30 like today. Maybe I won’t still feel a need to slaughter

you all by morning. Michael…”

“Yeah, Doug?”

“We’ll work on the understudies tomorrow. Do you know Hamlet’s

part yet? I know you’ve only been here one day, but do you know

*any* of it?”

“Sure, I know the whole thing.”

“Well, pray God you’re a better Hamlet than Osric.”

The old, empty store echoed with the squeak of sneakers and

voices as the company filed out to their respective homes and

suppers. Michael gave Debbie a long, lingering glance, which she

returned. Attaching themselves to the end of the line, he waited

until everyone else was out of earshot before speaking.

“I don’t know if I can do this.”

“Sure you can.”

“But Osric?! I mean, Laertes, now. I could really get inside his

head with no problem. His father murdered; his sister driven to

her death; buffeted by forces he can’t control until he snaps.

Yeah, just get Alex Krycek to play Hamlet and I could really get

behind Laertes.”

“How about a lady in waiting, Mulder? This is the most boring

thing I’ve ever done in my life. All I do is stand around, waiting.

Thank God I’ve got bigger parts in the other two plays. Aren’t

there any good female roles in this one besides the Queen and

Ophelia?”

“Nope, sorry, Scully. There aren’t more than a few female parts in

any of Shakespeare’s plays. Women weren’t allowed to act on the

stage back then, so the female roles had to be played by men. It

just made sense to limit how many guys in drag they needed.

What in God’s name was Skinner thinking by sending us out

here?”

“He was thinking of three actors dead and one in a coma in three

weeks time. He was thinking of no evidence and even fewer

clues. He was thinking maybe he could get us out of his hair for a

while, such as it is.”

“Well, he should have thought to send someone who could act.

We’ll never be able to hold our cover this time.”

“Speaking of our cover, what’s with the names?”

“Why? What’s wrong with them?”

“Michael Mulder and Debbie Scully? Anyone who wanted to could

look those up on the Internet and find out they aren’t really ours.”

“How do you know there aren’t two people completely unrelated to

us with those names? What did you want, Scully? Rob and Laura

Petrie?”

“I thought it was my turn to pick the names.”

“You weren’t in Skinner’s office when he asked for suggestions. I

just thought it would be easier not having to think about what to

call each other. Besides, I still don’t see why the Cleveland field

office couldn’t handle it.”

“Because they may be known to the local actors, Mulder. We’ve

already been over this. Besides, it’s almost like a vacation for us.

Nothing supernatural, no monsters or conspiracies. Just a chance

to relax and enjoy spring in beautiful Northeast Ohio while we look

into a few murders.”

“You go ahead and relax. Tomorrow, I’m Hamlet. And the day

after that, I’m Cassio. And the day after that, I’m Romeo. Scully,

what the hell are we doing here?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Take 5 Coffee Company

Downtown Cleveland

5:30 PM

“I still say you’re wrong.”

“Look, Mulder, Agent Kovach said all the alibis checked out. It’s

hard to kill someone when you’re with a large group of people.

Plus the autopsy reports indicate suicide.”

“Scpt fo Tres Pas.”

“Mulder, swallow first, then talk.”

~gulp~ “Sorry, Scully. I said except for Teresa Bates. She was

strangled by Bill Yankovic, who killed himself before he could be

arrested. And I know Andrea Dixon seems to have stabbed

herself. But I just don’t think it’s as simple as suicide. For one

thing, Sean Barliss is alive, even if he is still in a coma, so no one

knows if he took the poison on his own.”

“Do you think someone else is killing these people?”

“Well, I suppose it could be Doug. He seems like a pretty loose

cannon to me, but as you said, his alibis have all checked out. I

think his main problem is the stress of trying to pull together a

series of plays with a constantly changing cast. Besides, what

reason would he have for killing off his own company? Doesn’t

that seem a bit self-defeating to you?”

“Actually, it could work in his favor. Agent Kovach said this could

be their last season if they don’t bring in enough money to keep

their financial backers happy. With the publicity about the deaths,

morbid curiosity will help to fill seats. Who has a better reason to

want that than the company’s managing director?”

“I don’t know, Scully. There are still those tight alibis in our way.

Maybe what we’re looking at here is something along the lines of

possession or occult influence.”

“How did we just go from suicide to murder to possession,

Mulder? Doesn’t that seem a bit far-fetched, even to you?”

“You know me; the shortest distance between two points is the

most paranormal one.”

“Well, I’m leaning more toward the suicide angle, unlikely as it

seems at the moment. That still makes more sense to me than a

vengeful spirit out to murder the members of a small acting

company. Besides, why would it pick now, and why here?

They’re in an old abandoned store, so the ‘ghost of the theater’

cliche doesn’t apply.”

“Maybe it’s something to do with the history of the drug store.

Cleveland is an old port city with a long, colorful history. I’m not

going to discount anything at the moment.”

Taking a sip of his iced tea, Mulder caught Scully’s eye, quirking

one brow toward the door. She turned as though looking for

something in her purse and noticed one of their fellow actors

standing just inside the entry. He appeared to be scanning the

small coffee shop for someone. Scully looked back at Mulder,

mouthing the words “Our contact?”

Nodding, Mulder raised a hand, signaling the younger man over to

their table. “David!” he shouted. “Over here.”

Casting quick glances left and right, David Prohaska strode up to

their table, but refused the proffered chair, shifting from foot to foot

as he stood.

“I’d like to join you,” he mumbled, “but I’m supposed to be meeting

someone.”

Waving a finger between himself and Scully, Mulder stated, “That

would be us.” He thrust out a hand and pumped David’s arm,

jostling the smaller man. “Special Agent Mulder, FBI.” He hooked

a thumb to the side. “My partner, Special Agent Scully. You’re

the one who contacted the Bureau about the deaths, right?”

Pulling out an empty chair, David dropped into it with a thud.

“How did you know it was me?”

“We were in touch with the Cleveland field office,” Scully

informed him. “They let us know who to look for, and gave us the

background on the case. We need to ask you some questions

about what’s been going on.”

“What should I call you?” David wanted to know.

Before Scully could give an answer, Mulder jumped in. “You can

call me Mulder,” he said, and gestured at Scully. “She’s Debbie.”

That earned him a glare.

“What do you need to know?” David asked, giving his lips a

nervous lick.

Glancing over at her partner, Scully caught his quick nod. He

wanted her to take the lead, so he could sit back and watch the

young actor’s body language. They hadn’t discussed what

questions to ask yet, so she decided to start with the obvious.

“Did any of the victims seem depressed? Had they attempted

suicide before?” she inquired.

“Not that I’m aware. They were just regular people for the most

part. They were a little jumpier than usual, but then we all are,

what with so much riding on this season. There might be some

kind of flu bug going around. Lots of us have been sick off and on

lately. Even me.”

“When did this start?”

“Probably a month ago. I don’t remember exactly. It wasn’t

everybody at once or anything. Just one person at a time. We

figured it was a virus making its way through the troupe. Then

people started dying and everyone forgot about it.”

“How did you find Andrea Dixon? Aren’t the upstairs rooms in the

store closed off?”

Licking his lips again, David nodded, eyes flicking back and forth

and around the cafe. “We don’t use those rooms, even for

changing costumes. All of the clothes are kept in the back storage

room on the main floor. I went looking for Andrea because we

were going to be rehearsing a scene together and Doug gets

irritated when anything holds up the company. I couldn’t find her

downstairs, so I figured I’d look upstairs.” He swallowed, shaking

his head. “I found her, all right.”

Running his finger around the rim of his iced tea glass, Mulder

posed a nonchalant question. “Were there ever any fights

between the players? Anyone who might have a reason to dislike

the others?”

“Well, sure,” David stated. “We’re actors. There are always egos

involved in a company like this. But we all get along pretty much.

Doug can be nasty at times, but he’s okay. He just has a lot of

pressure on him right now to produce a money-making season.

He doesn’t mean some of the things he says.”

“Like what?” Scully asked.

David fidgeted in his chair. He glanced around again, as if looking

for eavesdroppers, before leaning closer across the table. “When

I told Doug he needed to go upstairs and see Andrea, he said he’d

kill her if she’d been drinking again.” He sat back with an air of

having imparted a piece of important news and waited for their

reactions. He appeared disappointed when they just looked at

each other with eyebrows raised.

Reaching into his back pocket, David produced a creased sheet of

notebook paper and handed it to Mulder. “The agent I talked to at

the field office said you’d need a list of the players and the roles

they’re doing. Of course, the roles have changed a bit, now that

we’re short on actors. Each of us has at least two main characters

to learn, plus some minor ones. Doug’s trying to make sure we

can keep the rehearsals going, but it’s not easy when the parts

keep changing.”

Mulder scanned the list, then handed it to Scully. “We’ll be in

touch if we have any more questions. And we’d appreciate it if

you’d keep who we are to yourself for now. The fewer people who

know, the easier the investigation will be.”

Rising to his feet, the young actor nodded in agreement. He

glanced around the cafe once more, then headed out the door.

Scully folded the paper. Slipping it into her purse, she stood to

leave. “Let’s take this discussion back to our rooms. I want to go

over those autopsy reports again and see if anything jumps out at

me.”

“Well considering where we’re staying, the possibilities are

endless for things jumping out.”

“Mulder,” she chuckled, “how on earth did you find furnished

rentals with a view of the Erie Street Cemetery?”

“Divine intervention.” He grinned back. “Plus I told Agent Kovach

exactly what I was looking for. Erie Street is Cleveland’s oldest

existing cemetery, Scully. It’s supposed to be haunted. I couldn’t

pass up such a perfect opportunity.”

“Well I wish you’d passed up the rooms over Forgac Collision and

Towing. The sink in my place hasn’t stopped spewing rusty water

yet. I hate to think what the communal shower down the hall is

like. And I can’t believe that everyone has to share a bathroom.

It’s like college, only worse. What I wouldn’t give for a nice

fleabag motel right about now.”

Placing his hand on her back, Mulder ushered Scully onto the

sidewalk, into the soft breeze of an unseasonably warm Lake Erie

Spring.

“I’ll remember that the next time you complain about our

accommodations,” he said.

Scully sighed. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Apartment 3-C

Forgac Collision and Towing

E. 9th Street

11:47 PM

“That wasn’t very helpful, Scully.”

“Neither was nibbling on my neck while I was concentrating on the

autopsy reports. I’ve got cans of iced tea in that pathetic excuse

for a fridge. You want one?”

“No thanks. I was guzzling tea all through rehearsal. I’ve

probably got enough caffeine in my system to keep me going for a

week.” Mulder tossed the file folder next to Scully’s laptop,

scrubbing his eyes. “Did you find out anything useful today?”

“It’s a little hard to find anything when you have to stand around all day

waiting for your cue.” Scully stretched her neck from side to side,

enjoying the snap of releasing vertebrae. Mulder scooted closer

on the couch, long fingers pressing circles into the tight muscles

across her shoulders. She sighed in relief, shooting him a smile of

gratitude.

“What are we doing undercover in the first place?” Relaxing back

into the couch, Mulder rubbed his stomach. “It would be so much

easier to go in, badges blazing, and ask for the information we

need.”

“Apparently, the Playhouse Square stockholders want this kept

quiet. Skinner said they’ve spent a lot of time and money

renovating the theaters. I guess they’re afraid a couple of flapping

trenchcoats will spoil all their feel-good publicity.”

“Then the skullduggery approach it is. Maybe you’ll have more

time to look around tomorrow. They’ve got enough understudies

for the main female characters, so you’ll be free to check things

out while I’m slaving away.”

“That’s what you get for having all the juicy parts, Mulder. If there

were more female roles, I’d have more lines to study, and *you*

could be the one skulking in dark corners. I’m not even sure what

I’m looking for.”

“Anything out of place. Unusual cold spots, strange behavior,

levitation, eyes spitting fire in the dark…”

“Thanks. That was a big help. I just don’t see…yoooww…”

Scully’s jaw cracked with the force of her yawn, drawing an

answering one from her partner. Mulder still rubbed at his

stomach, something she noticed he’d been doing off and on all

evening.

“Can’t see anything when your eyes are blurry, Scully. Maybe we

should call it a night. We’ve got an early rehearsal tomorrow.”

“But we haven’t come up with anything concrete yet, Mulder.”

Sliding sideways down the tattered sofa, she sprawled across his

legs, gesturing to her open laptop. “All we know is that three

people are dead, one is in a coma, and all four showed traces of

scopolamine, hyoscine, or atropine. We don’t even know why it’s

there or where it came from.”

“With the help of David’s list, we’ve at least established that the

roles they were playing had something to do with their behavior. If

you look at how they died, it’s clear that there’s a correlation. Bill

Yankovic was Othello — he strangled his Desdemona, Teresa

Bates, and then slit his own throat. Romeo, Sean Barliss, drank

atropine in the form of eye drops, whether voluntarily or not. And

Andrea Dixon, as Juliet, stabbed herself.” Mulder’s jaw cracked

on another yawn.

“I wish we had more to go on.” Struggling to sit back up, Scully

found herself being pulled down and pinned across Mulder’s lap.

“You’ll just have to nose around as much as you can tomorrow,”

he breathed into her ear, bending down to kiss the lobe. “Right

now, I’ve got concrete ideas about some funky monkeyshines.”

Pushing his questing face to one side, she rolled off the couch and

stood up. “We’re both tired, Mulder, and as you said, we have an

early rehearsal. Time for you to go to sleep — in your own room.”

“But Sculleee….”

“No buts, Mulder. It’ll be good motivation for us to close this case

so we can go home. And just what are you planning to do while

I’m poking my nose into dusty cupboards?”

“I’ve got a full day of understudy rehearsals,” he said. His hand

was rubbing his stomach again.

“Uh huh,” Scully mumbled, then changed the subject. “What’s

with your stomach tonight, Mulder? Is it bothering you?”

He glanced down in surprise at the hand that was still massaging

his midsection. “I told you there’d be hell to pay if I had to eat

decent food. Guess something in that healthy dinner didn’t agree

with me.”

“Well let me know if you need anything for it,” she said, closing the

laptop. Giving Mulder a quick peck on the lips, she pulled him up

from the sofa and pushed him toward the door. “Try to get some

sleep. See you at breakfast.”

Grumbling under his breath, Mulder shuffled into the hall, and

headed for his own room. He was standing in front of the door

with the key in his hand, when the color drained from his face.

Spinning on his heel, Mulder raced down the length of the hall,

slapping the swinging door of the communal bathroom open

without stopping. It was a good thing Scully had already closed

her door and wandered into the bedroom, or she would have been

treated to the sound of her partner’s painful retching.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

2:53 AM

Ghostly granite angels shimmered in the wavering moonlight,

casting their winged silhouettes over the neighboring monuments.

Here a sorrowing cherub; there a cross stating “Sacred to the

Memory of”; in the distance, a mausoleum cloaked in shadows.

Mulder wove his way between them, noting the names and dates,

wandering without purpose, yet certain of where he wanted to be.

The sound of singing drew him deeper into the burial ground.

Leaves crackled and slid under his feet as he closed in on the

voice. Presently, he could see the glow of a lantern illuminating

each shovelful of soil as it was pitched onto a growing mound

beside a hole in the ground. The singing was coming from inside

the grave.

Stopping well back, Mulder listened for a moment. “Has this

fellow no feeling of his business? He sings in grave-making.”

“Custom hath made it in him a property of easiness.”

Mulder gasped, turning toward the familiar voice. Alex Krycek

was standing next to him, hands shoved into the pockets of his

leather jacket. A skull came sailing out of the hole, rolling to a

stop between them. Mulder poked it with his bare toes.

“That skull had a tongue in it, and could sing once. How the

knave throws it to the ground, as if it were Cain’s jaw-bone that did

the first murder!”

“Ay, my lord.”

Stepping a little closer, Mulder called toward the dark pit. “Whose

grave’s this?”

The face of Dr. Blockhead popped into view. “Mine sir. It’s not

yours, for you don’t lie in it. And yet while I don’t lie in it either,

still, it’s mine.” His face popped back down and the singing

resumed.

More dirt flew up onto the pile, bones scattering down the slopes

to clank together at the bottom. Mulder continued to watch until a

sound drew his attention. Glancing around, he realized that

Krycek was no longer standing beside him. He was trotting

toward a clearing in the woods, dribbling the skull.

Robert Patrick Modell ran checking maneuvers as Krycek dodged

back and forth. It didn’t seem odd that he was using both hands —

the left one looked as though it had never been missing. Mulder

suddenly found himself running defense in front of Krycek, closing

in on the flood-lit basketball hoop. Eugene Victor Tooms and

Donnie Pfaster guarded the backboard, while Scully’s brother, Bill

ran defense to Krycek’s right. Three on three seemed like good

odds. As Krycek sent the skull sailing toward the basket, the

clearing blinked, and disappeared.

Bill Scully stood with Skinner beside the open grave.

“Must there be no more done?”

Skinner closed the file he was reading, and handed it to his

secretary. “No more be done,” he said. “Her death was doubtful.”

“A ministering angel shall my sister be when you lie howling.”

Everything went dark. For a moment, Mulder wasn’t sure whether

or not he’d gone blind. But then the earth beneath him began to

glow, and he realized he was standing inside the grave. A cloth-

wrapped body lay at his feet, face obscured, violets resting over

the folded hands.

“What, the fair Ophelia?” Mulder reached out to reveal the face,

hand trembling.

“The devil take thy soul, you sorry son-of-a-bitch!” Bill Scully’s

words dropped into the open grave, bouncing back and forth until

they left Mulder’s ears ringing. Drawing a steadying breath, he

peeled back the shrouded layers, and looked down at the still face

of Dana Scully. Tears dripped off his chin to land on her body,

soaking into the white cloth.

“Forty thousand brothers could not with all their quantity of love

make up my sum.”

Her eyes sprang open.

“Should we be pickin’ out china patterns, or what?”

With a mighty rumble, the ground cracked open under his feet.

Mulder fell backward into the fissure, arms flailing, too stunned to

scream. As he tumbled down and down, the glow of light from the

grave grew fainter. The jolt of landing on the floor completed his

journey back from sleep. He groaned, not sure if he was hurt or

just startled from his rude awakening. Levering himself to a

standing position, he shuffled over to the window of his room. The

sign outside flashed “Forgac” in time to the throbbing in his head.

He swabbed the inside of his mouth with a tongue too dry to do

any good. Resting his hip against the windowsill, Mulder stared

across East 9th Street at the statues gleaming in the graveyard,

unnaturally illuminated by the street lights. Here a cherub; there a

cross. And in the distance, as he leaned against the cool glass,

trying to massage away the persistent ache in his gut, Mulder

thought he saw Alex Krycek dribbling a skull into the shadows.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Act 2

rehearsal hall

men’s dressing room

May 5

9:10 AM

“Hurry up, Michael. Wardrobe is waiting to do our fittings, and

we’re gonna be late for rehearsal if you don’t move it.”

The sound of Scully’s raised voice preceded her into the dressing

room by several seconds. Otherwise, Mulder might not have

recognized her as his partner. He’d seen her hair piled up in

ringlets and wisps before, but he’d never seen her laced into a

dress quite like the one she was currently wearing. It looked to be

made from some heavy, embossed fabric reaching all the way to

the floor and trailing in her wake. She only avoided tripping on the

extra length by holding it bunched in her hands. But the amount

of Scully the skirt covered appeared to be in reverse proportion to

the amount of her that spilled out of the low-cut top. Mulder was

thankful she broke his trance before his eyeballs dried out from

staring.

“Close your mouth, Mulder. Haven’t you ever seen breasts

before?” Planting her fists on her hips just shoved them up higher

out of the neckline.

Mulder’s jaws came together with an audible snap. “Yes, I have.

And those aren’t breasts; they’re bazooms. Believe me, there’s a

difference.”

Scully ignored his remark and took in his partially-dressed state.

Turning to shut the door, she couldn’t contain a smirk. “Um, I think

there’s a slight problem with your costume.”

Glancing down his bare torso to the dark green tights it had taken

him five minutes of steady cursing to don, Mulder stated, “I don’t

see anything wrong.”

“You’re not supposed to wear boxer briefs under tights.”

His mouth fell open, again. “I can’t just let it all hang out,” he

huffed. “Everyone will be able to tell whether my parents held a

bris or a baptism.”

Hunting through the boxes of clothing on the floor, Scully pulled

something out, tossing him a wisp of cloth. Mulder untangled it

and frowned.

“It’s a jock strap.”

“It’s a dancer’s strap,” she corrected. “It’s built on the same

principal but for a different purpose. It gives you a more uniform,

androgynous bulge. Now hurry up and put it on.”

“You mean I have to take these damned things off and put them

back on again?” Mulder was clearly horrified by the very idea.

Picking up another piece of clothing from the box, Scully tried to

demonstrate proper tights-putting-on technique. “Bunch one leg

into a ring in your hands like this, point your toes, and smooth it up

your leg. Then do the other one the same way. Doesn’t anyone

ever put on pantyhose in those videos of yours? Or do they just

take them off?”

“Very funny, Whoopi Goldberg,” Mulder grumbled, as he wiggled

out of the offending garment. “Could you please leave so I can

get this over with?”

An unladylike snort escaped before she could stop it. “Mulder, we

were buck naked and dancing the horizontal mambo in the not-so-

distant past. Why the sudden modesty?”

“I just don’t think there’s any need for you to witness me flopping

around like a beached flounder. At least turn your back while I

struggle into this torture device.”

Turning around, Scully crossed her arms with difficulty over her

prominent chest. “Fine, fine,” she muttered. “I’ll allow you to

preserve your dignity. Just remember this the next time you watch

me put on hose.”

“I promise…” ~grunt~ “to avert…” ~gasp~ “my eyes…shit…in

order to preserve” ~snap~ “your feminine mystique. Jesus,

Scully, who the hell invented tights, anyway?”

“Same person who invented girdles and pantyhose, Mulder,” she

said. “The Marquis de Sade.”

“I can feel a breeze blowing across my ass! There’s nothing but a

stretchy piece of fabric between me and mooning the world.”

“That’s what doublets and tunics are for.”

“No tunic is gonna be long enough to hide the four-man tent I

started pitching the minute I saw you in that dress.”

Scully peeked over her shoulder. “Looks like a pup tent to me,

Mulder. What’s the matter? Can’t handle a little cleavage?”

He shot her a withering glance as he picked up a black doublet

slashed with green facings. “I don’t think it’s called cleavage when

your breasts are mounded up under your chin.”

“That was just the style in Shakespeare’s day. It’s a traditional

form of dress for doing his plays.”

“It’s traditional because men have always liked looking at

boobage.” Dressed at last, Mulder’s doublet hung down to his

knees and bagged under the arms. He frowned. “The last guy

must have been beefy.”

Hitching up her skirt with one hand, Scully grabbed the doorknob

with the other. “That’s why theaters have seamstresses, Mulder.

Now let’s go see her about alterations so we can get this

investigation on the road.” She pulled the door open and waved

him through.

“Good idea,” he agreed. “Maybe I can get her to help me find the

top half of your dress.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

rehearsal hall

12:45 PM

“No thanks, Mulder.”

Taking back the proffered mug of tea, he sipped the steamy liquid.

“It’s good. You should try it.”

“No thanks,” Scully repeated. She gathered up her crumb-filled

sandwich wrapper, brushing her hands on her jeans. The other

actors were beginning to drift back from their lunch break, filling

the empty storefront with echoing chatter as they found chairs

around the room’s perimeter.

Measuring for alterations had taken a bit longer than necessary,

owing to Mulder’s constant flirting with the elderly wardrobe

mistress. They had, indeed, been late to rehearsal, which called

down another round of sarcasm from Doug. Deciding that a bit of

distance between him and Mulder was in order, Scully had gone

out for sandwiches, which they ate in the empty store. At least,

she’d eaten hers while Mulder picked his to bits and drained two

mugs of tea. Now people were straggling in from their meals,

bringing fragrant blasts of the warm May wind with them.

She looked up as someone dropped into the chair between her

and Mulder. He reminded Scully of Skinner — large, broad,

muscular. And bald. He smiled at both agents and stuck out a

hand.

“We didn’t meet yesterday. I’m Joe Korniak, the fight coordinator.”

His white smile stood out against the tan he already sported so

early in the season. Mulder gripped his hand, eyes widening at

the strength of his clasp. Scully made the introductions.

Joe turned to her, presenting his back to Mulder’s startled gaze.

“So where else have you worked?” Joe asked. “I’d have

remembered if I’d seen you in Cleveland before.”

Scully pasted a smile on her face and hoped Mulder could hear

the lie she was about to concoct.

“We were with the Kent State company for a while, until they

folded.” Her mind scrabbled around for something to add, wishing

her uncharacteristically silent partner would jump in for once.

“Umm, then we just sort of wandered from place to place,

wherever they needed someone in a pinch. That’s been pretty

much it.”

“Yeah, I heard Kent had a small group that they couldn’t keep

going,” Joe agreed, nodding. “Why do you keep saying ‘we’? Do

the two of you travel everywhere together, like some kind of

special team? You know, the Avengers of the Shakespearean

crowd?”

The unwise, scathing reply on the tip of Scully’s tongue was halted

by raised voices coming from the other side of the stage. All

heads swiveled in that direction.

“I don’t give a shit, Doug! I don’t want to understudy Cassio!” The

young actor with the glasses and mousy-blond ponytail was

standing toe to toe with his director, glowering up at the taller man.

“He’s a wuss and an idiot, and I’d rather do Iago if I have to do

anyone.”

Doug seemed unfazed by the wild-eyed actor. “I don’t care what

you want, Brian. I’m in charge. We’re short-handed, so quit your

whining and do as you’re told. Now let’s get back to work.”

Everyone released a collective breath when the expected punch in

the nose became footsteps stomping out of the store, to the

accompaniment of a slamming door. They all turned to watch out

the window as Brian strode off down the sidewalk, t-shirt flapping

in the brisk May breeze.

“Okay,” Doug announced, with a put-upon sigh, “it looks like we’ll

be taking a break until Joe and I can get Brian back and talk some

sense into him. Relax, but don’t go too far.” He walked over and

pulled the door open, looking back at the man between the two

agents. “Come on, Joe,” he demanded. “You know you’re the

only one he’ll listen to lately.”

Shrugging in apology, Joe stood, sticking out a hand to Scully in

farewell. “Sorry to run, but we can talk again later. Nice to meet

you, Debbie.” He turned as an afterthought. “You too, umm,

Michael, was it? We’ll work together on the sword fighting

tomorrow. Provided we can convince Laertes he’s needed here.

He’s still a bit on edge, I guess. Teresa Bates was his sister.”

On that note, he followed Doug out into the afternoon sunshine,

leaving a wide-eyed Scully with her first good look at the glowering

face of her partner. His black gaze skittered away from hers.

“How did they miss the connection, Mulder?” she whispered. “I’m

surprised the field office overlooked that, even if they didn’t have

the same last name. We need to talk to Brian as soon as

possible. Maybe he can tell us something about his sister’s

relationship with the man who strangled her.”

“Maybe your mind was on other things yesterday,” he grated.

“Why don’t you go and help your friend Joe, Scully? He’s

probably waiting outside for you right now.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Mulder?”

“Nothing. Forget I said anything.” He thumped his mug down on

the floor and stood to leave.

“No, I won’t forget it. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong, Scully. Just drop it.”

She stood as well, moving into his personal space and trying to

catch his furtive glance. “The testosterone is coating my skin like

an oil slick. Why are you acting like this?”

The glaring eyes that looked at her from under lowered brows sent

a shiver of concern through Scully’s body.

“I said nothing is wrong,” Mulder hissed. “Now leave me alone.”

Shaking off her restraining hand, he stomped off to the back of the

store, all the startled eyes in the room eagerly observing this new

entertainment.

But no one was quite as surprised as Dana Scully.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Slamming cupboard doors did nothing to alleviate Scully’s

disquiet. All it did was stir up dust that made her sneeze.

Rubbing the tickle at the end of her nose left a smear of gray

behind. She hadn’t bothered to follow Mulder, even when she

heard him vomiting in the bathroom. Maybe whatever was

upsetting his stomach was responsible for his current mood. She

decided to confront him about it later, after she’d looked around

some more.

She’d already been through the upstairs and most of the first floor.

For a small storefront, it was a warren of cubby holes and rooms,

some leading one off the other. Most were empty. A couple still

contained a piece or two of furniture. The minuscule closet had

yielded a hot water bottle with a hole in the side, some random

bobbie pins, and a mound of toweling scraps that Scully sifted with

her fingers before finding a pile of mouse bones inside. The yelp

she let out was instinctive and unstoppable.

“Some FBI pathologist you are,” she’d muttered to herself. “Get a

grip. You’ve seen worse.”

The kitchen was the last room she’d needed to search on the first

floor. It was also turning out to be the most interesting. Still in use

by the actors for the purpose of heating tea, coffee, and simple

foods on a hot plate, it also contained a few relics of the previous

owner. Most she discovered on the shelves at the top of the floor-

to-ceiling cupboards. That meant climbing the cabinets, using the

shelves as toe holds, but that’s why they had yearly physical

fitness recertification.

Easier than that stupid rope wall at Quantico, she thought.

Fishing into the shadows at the back of the shelves, Scully prayed

she wouldn’t encounter a mouse that’d suffered a more recent

demise. She placed the objects she found on a lower shelf near

her knees, where she’d be able to look at them once she climbed

down. So far, there were ten antique bottles, four books, a box of

kitchen matches, a bottle opener (the pry-up kind), and an

assortment of string, straight pins, newspaper bits, and bobbie

pins. The last occupant hadn’t checked very carefully when it

came time to leave.

Hopping down from the cabinet, Scully wiped her dusty hands on

her jeans before turning to the objects she’d found. The oddments

she dismissed as useless. The bottles probably weren’t very

important either, except to an antiques dealer. Some of the labels

were intact. One marked “Barber’s Liquid Styptic” still retained a

clear fluid near the top, but there was a chunk of white sediment in

the bottom. The others were completely empty. Those stoppered

with cork, Scully postulated, had evaporated over time, leaving a

filmy residue on the inside. She could tell what some of them had

held because the brand name was embossed in the glass.

Listerine. The Bayer Company. Phillips Milk Of Magnesia on

bright blue glass. A half-pint milk bottle proclaimed “Fenn Dairy,

Kent, O.” The tiny gold and blue tin of “Colgate Talc for Men”

gave her a flashback to her Grandfather Scully’s bathroom shelf,

with the bottle of Old Spice aftershave, powder tin, and the razor

strop hanging on a hook from the side. Thinking how fascinated

her mother would be by these pieces of the past, Scully turned

next to the books.

What she had assumed was a small pamphlet turned out to be a

pack of needles. Labeled “The Polly Prim Needle Book,” it

advertised its German wares in glowing prose on the cover of a

protective envelope. “Price 50 cents.” From the weight of the

package, it appeared all the needles were still inside, too. Scully

set that aside in favor of the remaining items.

The first book she picked up was something she would have

expected to find in a drug store. A tattered, worn volume on

pharmacology, dated 1925. Scully wondered how the druggist

had managed to dispense his medicines properly if that was what

he’d been using until the store closed. She hoped it was left

behind because it was outdated and useless.

The next one wasn’t too surprising, either. Poisonous Plants of

the United States, by Walter Muenscher. The date on the title

page was 1939. It seemed logical that a pharmacist would need

to know about toxic plants. He would be second only to the family

doctor as the person a frantic parent would contact when Junior

nibbled on one of the houseplants.

The last book’s title caused both eyebrows to climb her forehead

in surprise. History of Magic, by Eliphas Levi. It looked like a

well-used volume, maybe even a first edition. The date inside was

1860. Mulder would flip when she told him.

Smoothing a hand over the old, shiny leather cover, she added

the book to her collection of odds and ends.

Closing the cupboard door caused a billow of dust that tickled her

into sneezing again. When an answering sneeze sounded behind

her, Scully jumped.

“If you’re hungry, there’s a deli down the block. I don’t think you’ll

find anything edible in there.” The voice belonged to a woman

Scully had noticed the previous day. She was playing the part of

Ophelia to David’s Hamlet. During the rehearsal, she’d seemed

young and innocent, with cascades of light blonde hair flowing

down her back. Here, close up, Scully could see the blonde was

mostly silver-gray. Outside her character, she appeared sturdy,

middle-aged, and down to earth. Pulling a pack of cigarettes out

of her shirt pocket, she offered it first to Scully.

“I’m Suzanne Bzialewski,” she said. “You’re Debbie, right?”

“Yeah, that’s me.” Scully declined the proffered smoke. “I was

just looking around. I, umm… I love old buildings. I was checking

out the cupboards to see if there were any old newspapers and

stuff left behind.”

Lighting a cigarette, the other woman took a deep drag. She blew

the smoke out one side of her mouth, away from Scully, for

politeness sake. “Find anything interesting?”

“Only if you like mouse bones and bobbie pins,” Scully lied.

Waving a hand in front of her face, she said, “It’s been a while

since anyone dusted.”

“Well, we’re only supposed to be here for a few months. Didn’t

seem like it was worth the time to swab the place out. The fridge

works and the counters are clean. That’s all any of them care

about.” Tamping out the stub of her cigarette, Suzanne said, “You

look like you could use some fresh air. Let’s go out back.”

Scully nodded and followed her through the back door. It was

situated next to the spiral stairs, with just enough room to get

between the two. The door opened onto a small rear yard, no

bigger than the inside of the store itself. The fenced yards of

neighboring buildings enclosed it on two sides, with a gate leading

out to an alley on the third. A few green shoots struggled out of

the ground along the rickety pickets, but they looked pale and

sickly, as if they never got enough sunlight. The grass was still

brown and lanky, matted down by the winter’s snow and not yet

recovered. It was obvious no one had tended the tiny space for a

long time. Scully shivered in the shadowy chill of the air. Drawing

in a deep lungful of the damp coolness felt good after all the dust.

“So, are you two an item?” Suzanne pulled out another cigarette

and lit it, flicking the match into a puddle, where it hissed. “You

and Michael?”

Her question took Scully by surprise. “Umm, no, we’re not,” she

replied. “We just work together.” Well, that wasn’t a lie, at least.

“You’re kidding. You hang out with a gorgeous man like that and

you’re not doing him?”

Hoping Mulder wouldn’t choose that moment to come looking for

her and blow her cover story, Scully expanded on her falsehood.

“We’re just really good friends. Have been for years.”

Suzanne chuckled, grinding her half-finished smoke under her

shoe. “Honey, one of you is blind or gay or both. If I was twenty

years younger, I’d be swapping spit with him in a heartbeat.”

An evil imp in Scully’s mind was going to suggest that she give it a

try, but Suzanne’s next words blew the thought right out of her

head.

“You heard about the deaths yet?”

Shoving chilled hands into her jeans pockets, Scully nodded.

“Yeah, we heard about them from David. It must be hard on

everyone, losing your friends that way.”

“Speaking for myself, they weren’t exactly friends, but they didn’t

deserve to die that way, either. I guess you just never know what

people will do when they’re depressed.”

Scully straightened, all attention. “They were depressed? David

didn’t seem to think so.”

“You’d have to be depressed to cut your own throat or drink

poison, don’t you think? Hell, I’ve been a bit down for a couple

weeks, too, but at least I haven’t tried to drown myself or anything.

In fact, I did everything I could *not* to drown when I fell into Lake

Erie.”

“You nearly drowned? When was that?”

“Last week. I was feeling antisocial, so I went out to Edgewater

Park. I thought sitting on the boulders along the shore and

watching the waves crashing would help. I hadn’t been there long

when I tumbled off the rock and fell into the lake. Damned cold it

was, too. I screeched like hell until a couple fishermen came and

hauled me out.”

Before Scully could assimilate what she’d heard and come up with

a comment, Suzanne pointed down the alley.

“Looks like they tracked the idiot down again.”

At the other end of the narrow passageway, Doug and Joe could

be seen approaching with Brian striding between them. Snatches

of Joe’s soothing assurances could be heard as the breeze tore

them from his lips and flung them down the alley.

“Let’s get back inside before Doug sees us,” Suzanne suggested.

“I don’t want to sit through another of his pissy speeches about not

wasting time that could be spent studying lines. He’s one of the

best at pulling together a production, but the man is an insensitive

ass.”

Following her back through the door, Scully took time to wash off

the evidence of her snooping. When she met Mulder in the hall,

on his way toward the front of the store, he nodded as if nothing

had happened. She wondered where he’d been, but let it pass

and joined him in finding a place to sit.

When Doug and Joe walked in with a less agitated Brian, Mulder

and Scully were back in their seats, ready for rehearsal along with

the others. Peace reigned for a few hours as the understudies

gathered in groups to go over the parts they would play if

necessary. Mulder found himself relating more and more to the

Danish heir-apparent with the dysfunctional family life.

When Doug announced a supper break, the idea wasn’t as

appealing to Mulder as it might have been earlier in the day. After

losing his meager breakfast, he’d decided to skip lunch and felt

better for a while. But now, the butterflies were back. Mulder

hoped whatever bug he was coming down with would hurry up

and leave. Seeing Scully enter from the rear of the store, he

joined her in observing the departing company.

“So what did you find, Scully?”

Watching Doug toying with a dagger, she ignored Mulder’s curt

tone of voice. “Besides little piles of mouse bones? Just some

bottles and books.” She wiped her hands down the sides of her

smudged jeans, still trying to erase the spidery touch of long-

abandoned cobwebs. “Did you get any impressions of the other

actors while I was grubbing in the dirt?”

“Why do you want to know?”

His question took her by surprise. It wasn’t the words themselves

as much as the suspicion underlying them. Taking a good look at

him for the first time since she’d entered the room, Scully was

alarmed by the pallor of Mulder’s skin. His tongue snaked out,

giving his dry lips an absent lick. His eyes seemed to be darker

than usual, as though the pupils were dilated. She reached out to

touch his forehead, frowning as he flinched to one side.

“I was just wondering if you had any better luck than I did,” she

answered. “I was hoping you’d learned something that would

help.”

“Well you’re wasting your time,” Mulder stated. “There has to be

some kind of possession or occult spell at work here, and you’re

not going to find that rooting around in an empty store.”

She was going to debate his hypothesis, but her attention was

caught by David. He was backing away from Joe, expansive

gestures demonstrating some type of fencing move.

Unfortunately, neither man could see that he was backing toward

Doug, who stood facing in the opposite direction with the dagger

clasped behind his back, point outward. Scully opened her mouth

to shout a warning, already aware she would be too late.

The look of surprise on David’s face was mirrored on Doug’s.

They spun around to face each other, mouths working

soundlessly. The dagger dropped between them, tip glistening

red. David twisted to look at his back. He never completed the

move, collapsing to the floor at his director’s feet.

“What the hell happened?” Doug’s voice was several octaves

higher than usual. “It was a prop dagger. How did he hurt himself

on a prop dagger?”

Rushing over to the fallen actor, Scully was vaguely aware of

Mulder picking up the weapon with a hanky while Doug continued

to babble to no one in particular. Ripping open the back of David’s

shirt, she was relieved to find a deep gash, rather than a stab

wound. Checking the one eye she could see, his dilated pupil

coupled with the pale, dry skin gave her pause. There was

something going on here. She just hoped she would be able to

figure out what before someone else was seriously hurt.

“It’s okay, Doug,” she interrupted his confused ranting. “I’ve had

first aid training. It just looks like a bad cut to me, but we should

probably get him to the hospital. I think he’s in shock and he’ll need

stitches.”

The few people left in the room divied up the jobs of calling an

ambulance, calling David’s mother, and helping Scully to bandage

his wound. In all the activity, she never noticed Mulder as he

stood in a dark corner, watching her with glowering eyes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Apartment 3-C

Forgac Collision and Towing

8:47 PM

“There’s something in that store, Scully. I know it.”

“Mulder, I don’t think it’s anything paranormal or –”

“What about David? You saw what happened to him.”

“He walked backward without looking where he was going. It was

an accident –”

“Now he’s home for a week with stitches and *I’m* stuck having to

learn three major parts. You don’t see anything unusual about

that?”

“All I see is Doug using the person with the best memory for a

very difficult part –”

“Maybe it’s Doug, after all. Maybe there’s more going on within

the company than we’ve seen so far. We need to do some

background checks and –”

“Mulder!”

He stopped the frenetic pacing and turned startled eyes on his

partner.

“What?”

“Settle down. We’ve been going around in circles without saying

anything new. Let’s take a break for a while.”

“I’m fine, Scully.”

“No, you’re not. You’re tired and so am I. We already gave our

statements to the police, we’ve gone over all the evidence — again

— now it’s time to step back for a little bit.” Scully picked up her

script from the coffee table. “Why don’t we go over some of

Hamlet’s lines, since you’re stuck with him?”

“With any luck, we won’t be here long enough for it to matter.

We’re not really actors, you know.”

“All the more reason to keep our cover intact.” She flipped the

pages, past her own meager part, highlighted in pink. “Why don’t

we go over the ‘to be or not to be’ speech?”

“Everybody does that one. Let’s do the scene after it. You can

read Ophelia’s part; find out what it’s like to have good lines for a

change.”

“Gee, thanks, Mulder. You want to look the script over first?”

“I’ve already read it. You can prompt me when I get lost.”

“Okay. Start with ‘Soft you now’.”

Closing his eyes, Mulder drew in a deep, calming breath and let it

out slowly. He opened his eyes, and began.

“‘Soft you now, the fair Ophelia. Nymph, in thy orisons be all my

sins rememb’red.'”

“‘Good my lord, how does your honor for this many a day?'”

“‘I humbly thank you, well, well.'”

“‘My lord, I have remembrances of yours that I have longed long to

redeliver.’ Mulder, does that make sense to you?”

“What? Does what make sense?”

“‘Longed long.’ It sounds funny.”

“It just means that she’s been wanting to do it for a while. Go on.”

“Oh. Ummm, ‘I pray you now receive them.'”

“‘No, not I, I never gave you aught.'”

“‘My honor’d lord, you know right well you did, and with them

words of so sweet breath compos’d as made these things more

rich. Their perfume lost, take these again, for to the noble mind,

rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind. There, my lord.'”

“‘Ha! Are you honest?”

“‘My lord?'”

“‘Are you fair?'”

“‘What means your lordship?'”

“‘That if you be honest and fair, your honesty should admit no

discourse to your beauty.'”

“‘Could beauty, my lord, have better commerce than with

honesty?'”

“‘Ay, truly, for the power of beauty will sooner transform honesty

from what it is to a bawd than the force of truth can translate

beauty into his likeness. This was sometime — ‘”

“‘Than the force of honesty,’ Mulder.”

“Huh? Scully, what is it?”

“You said ‘than the force of truth.’ The line is ‘than the force of

honesty.’ Why don’t you pick it up from there?”

“Yeah. Uh… ‘than the force of *honesty* can translate beauty into

his likeness. This was sometime a paradox, but now the time

gives it proof. I did love you once.'”

“‘Indeed, my lord, you made me believe so.'”

“‘You should not have believ’d me, for virtue cannot so inoculate

our old stock but we shall relish of it. I lov’d you not.'”

“‘I was the more deceiv’d.'”

“‘Get thee to a nunn’ry, why wouldst thou be a breeder of sinners?

I am myself indifferent honest, but yet I could accuse me of such

things that it were better my mother had not borne me: I am very

proud, revengeful, ambitious, with more offenses at my beck than

I have thoughts to put them in, imagination to give them shape, or

time to act them in. What should such fellows –‘”

“Mulder, calm down. There’s no need to shout.”

“I wasn’t shouting.”

“Yes you were. You still are.”

“I’m just doing what Hamlet would do. Isn’t that the point of

rehearsing a scene? Now are we going to do this or not?”

“Okay, okay. Go ahead and start again from ‘what should such

fellows as I.'”

“Well quit interrupting so we can get through this. ‘What should

such fellows as I do crawling between earth and heaven? We are

arrant knaves, believe none of us. Go thy ways to a nunn’ry.

Where’s your father?'”

“‘At home, my lord.'”

“‘Let the doors by shut upon him, that he may play the fool no

where but in his own house. Farewell.'”

“‘O, help him, you sweet heavens!'”

“‘If thou dost marry, I’ll give thee this plague for thy dowry: be thou

as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny.

Get thee to a nunn’ry, farewell. –‘”

“Mulder, hush.”

“‘– Or if thou wilt needs marry, marry a fool, for wise men know

well enough what monsters you make of them. To a nunn’ry, go,

and quickly, too. Farewell.'”

“…………. Oh! Uh, ‘Heavenly powers, restore him!'”

“‘I have heard of your paintings, well enough. God hath given you

one face and you make yourselves another. You jig and amble,

and you lisp, you nickname God’s creatures and make your

wantonness ignorance. Go to, I’ll no more on’t, it hath made me

mad. I say we shall have no more marriage. Those that are

married already, (all but one) shall live, the rest shall keep as they

are. To a nunn’ry, go.'”

“‘O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown!'”

The slamming door made Scully jump, dropping the script. She

stared in surprise at the dust motes swirling in the wake of her

partner’s exit.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

2:05 AM

Mulder’s heart pounded against his ribs as he dodged through the

trees, branches whipping his face until it stung. Watery moonlight

gave just enough illumination to keep him from running head first

into anything. The wind whistled and howled around his ears,

making the leaves perform a dervish dance. Doug Westler’s voice

chased him like a banshee in the night.

“It can’t be helped. You’ll have to be Hamlet until David comes

back.”

“But that means I’ve got three major parts to learn.”

“It can’t be helped. Can’t be helped. Can’t be helped.”

The words echoed inside his head. He didn’t want to be Hamlet.

He couldn’t be. There was no rational reason for the fear that

welled up inside him. Mulder just knew if he took on this new

character, it would mean his death. So he ran for his life. As hard

as he could.

Bursting into an opening in the forest, Mulder saw a thin figure just

ahead. It glowed with a greenish light, cadaverous and

nauseating. Leaves gathered around it, shaping themselves into

faces he recognized, then falling to the forest floor before rising up

to refashion themselves. Skidding to a stop, he stared for several

moments at the still form, willing his feet to carry him forward.

“Mark me.” The words blew apart in a wailing gust, thrown

towards him in pieces, insubstantial and doleful.

“Speak, I am bound to hear.” Unconscious steps took Mulder

closer, even as the vision appeared to approach without moving.

“Dad?!”

“I am thy father’s spirit, doom’d for a certain term to walk the night,

and for the day confin’d to fast in fires, till the foul crimes done in

my days of nature are burnt and purg’d away.”

Mulder fell to his knees, tears coursing unheeded down his

cheeks.

The apparition floated closer. “List, list, O, list! If thou didst ever

thy dear father love –”

“Oh God!”

“Revenge his foul and most unnatural murder.”

“Murder!”

“Murder most foul, as in the best it is, but this most foul, strange,

and unnatural.”

Jumping to his feet, Mulder threw his arms wide, embracing the

shrieking wind and whirling leaves. “Help me to find them, so I

can make the bastards pay! Tell me how to avenge your death!

What should I do?”

The fearsome apparition began to grow, expanding until it blocked

the moonlight, becoming the only thing visible no matter where

Mulder looked. The wind had died, and all the leaves lay still at

his feet. The silence pressed on his eardrums as though he had

lost all ability to hear. Then, he saw the figure’s lips move, issuing

forth a phosphorescent cloud along with its words.

“Trust no one.”

Crunching footsteps in the leaves sounded directly behind him.

Mulder whirled as a hand touched his shoulder. He breathed a

sigh of relief to see Scully watching him with loving concern on her

face. Until she opened her mouth, and spoke.

“O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown.”

Jerking upright in bed, Mulder gasped cool air into his straining

lungs. His gaze jerked around the room, noting furniture, stove,

sink, in the red glow of the sign pulsing outside his window. The

damp sheets were tangled around his legs, preventing him from

getting out of bed as fast as he would have liked. Good thing

there was a wastebasket close at hand. Only this time, there was

nothing for his heaving stomach to expel.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Act 3

Othello rehearsal

May 6

11:18 AM

“For mine own part — no offense to the general, nor any man of

quality — I hope to be sav’d.”

“And so do I too, lieutenant.”

“Ay; but by your leave, not before me; the lieutenant is to be sav’d

before the ancient. Let’s have no more of this; let’s to our affairs —

God forgive us our sins! — Gentlemen, let’s look to our business.

Do not think, gentlemen, that I am drunk: this is my ancient, this is

my right hand, and this is my left hand. I am not drunk now; I can

stand well enough, and I speak well enough.”

“Excellent well.”

“Why, very well then; you must not think then that I am drunk.”

Standing to the far right of the open floor, Scully watched as

Mulder’s Cassio staggered off, stage left, followed by some of the

other men. If she hadn’t been sure he was sober, his pale face

would have given the impression of a hangover. Maybe he was

just hungry. All he’d had for breakfast was some tea after they’d

gotten to the rehearsal hall. Even on an empty stomach, his

perfect memory still was able to dredge up the appropriate dialogue.

Clutching her script pages, Scully waited for Desdemona’s cue.

On the other side of the temporary stage area, Mulder leaned

against the wall, trying to quell the churning in his stomach. It

wasn’t as bad since he’d tossed his cookies before rehearsal

started. At least Scully had been too busy to notice. He didn’t

need her fussing over a case of the flu when there were more

important things to concentrate on. Only, his jittery nerves were

making it a bit hard to concentrate on anything. He jumped when

a finger tapped him on the shoulder.

“Hi. We haven’t met, but I was watching you yesterday. I’m Tracy

Griffith.”

A willowy woman with strawberry-blonde hair was standing a bit

too close for Mulder’s comfort, but he stuck out a hand in greeting.

“Michael Mulder. Just call me Mulder. Pleased to meet you.”

“I’m playing Bianca to your Cassio, you know.” Tracy licked her

lips and sidled closer, still holding his hand. Mulder pulled until

she released him and scooted further down the wall. She closed

the gap, leaning into his shoulder. “I was wondering if you’d like

to…go over our scenes together later.”

“I think we’ll be doing that in a little while, won’t we? I mean, we

are rehearsing those scenes today.” He watched as she licked

her lips again, her gaze fastened on his mouth as he spoke. He

twitched at the unexpected feel of fingers running up his ribs,

toward his chest.

“Yeah, we are,” she breathed in his ear. “But I was thinking of

something a little more…private.”

“Ummm…” Mulder would have found an answer in his muddled

brain if he hadn’t been distracted by Scully’s appearance on the

stage. He watched as Desdemona was gathered into the arms of

Othello’s understudy for a brief scene and led off stage again. A

jolt of suspicion rocked through his body as she seemed to remain

in the man’s arms a bit longer than necessary before stepping

back. He noticed her puzzled frown when she caught his eye.

Just then, Mulder felt long nails tickling up the side of his neck.

Tracy was breathing in his ear, again.

“Mulder, are you okay?” Scully asked.

“Yeah, Scully, thanks.” He’d missed seeing her approach. There

was more than just gratitude for the inquiry in his response. “My

stomach’s feeling better now.”

“Glad to hear it. Who’s your friend?”

Scooting out from under Tracy’s clinging hands, Mulder performed

the introductions, barely remembering to substitute Scully’s

undercover identity. “She’s doing Bianca in the play.” He

explained. “We were just talking about our parts.”

“I see.” The two women eyed each other like a couple of cats with

one catnip toy between them. Scully had a lot more experience at

intimidation, and Tracy backed down first.

“Why do you two call each other by your last names?” she huffed.

The blank look on Mulder’s face told Scully she would have to be

the one to improvise. “Well, the last troupe we were in already

had a Michael and a Debbie, so we started using our last names.

It sorta stuck.”

“Can I call you Michael, then?” Tracy had reentered Mulder’s

personal space, oblivious to Scully’s lowered brows. “You’re the

only one here.”

He scooted away from her again and bumped into his partner. “I

prefer Mulder. Michael makes me sound like an archangel and I

could never live up to the reputation.”

“I’d say it fits perfectly,” Tracy purred.

Scully had finally had enough. “Come on, Mulder. We’re breaking

for lunch.” She grabbed his arm, leading him away. Once they

were out of earshot, Mulder leaned over and spoke in her ear.

“I’m surprised you’re not having lunch with Othello instead of me.”

She skidded to a stop, causing a collision. “Where the hell did

that come from?”

“You seemed awfully chummy together earlier. I just figured you’d

be more interested in getting to know each other better.” Mulder

licked dry lips and wished he had a bottle of water for his parched

throat. The glare he was receiving dried up anything else he had

to say.

“I’m going to ignore that comment,” Scully said, “and we’ll just put

it down to whatever bug you seem to have picked up. Right now

we’re going to get some food, and then we’re going to go over the

case. If you want to practice your lines with Bimbo Bianca after

that, it’s up to you. For now, we’re working, and I expect you to

act like it.”

Wisely, Mulder kept his mouth shut as he followed her out of the

old store.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

rehearsal hall

7:40 PM

Having food in his stomach appeared to be just what the doctor

ordered. Mulder had started out with some soup and crackers at

lunch, and when that stayed down, making him feel a bit better,

he’d graduated to grilled chicken and a salad for supper.

He and Scully had gone over everything they knew, again, and it

still didn’t add up to anything they could grab onto. Mulder could

see the pattern, but they still had no idea of the causative factor.

Each of the actors had been killed in the same manner as one of

their characters, but why? The tox screens on the victims turned

up a foreign substance, but a different one in each case. Sean

Barliss was obvious — he’d drunk his grandmother’s eye drops,

which contained atropine. But Bill Yankovic had hyoscine in his

system, and Andrea Dixon showed traces of scopolamine. There

was something that nagged at him about that, but he couldn’t pin it

down. Poor Teresa Bates was playing the wrong character at the

wrong time. David Prohaska just appeared to be clumsy and not

watching where he was going. Mulder had left Scully at her laptop

in one of the dressing rooms, going over all the medical records

again.

“Okay, people,” Doug Westler yelled. Voices quieted down and

everyone’s attention turned toward him. “The Othello rehearsal

went as well as could expected, but we need to do a bit of fight

choreography before we call it a night. Joe will go over the basic

moves. Remember, people, this is practice. Let’s keep the

maiming to a minimum.”

Doug gestured to Mulder and Brian, indicating that they would be

first. Taking a last gulp of his cooling tea, Mulder set it aside,

where it wouldn’t get kicked over. He wished Scully would hurry

up with her research. He was looking forward to showing her his

manly moves.

Choosing a sword, Mulder stepped into the middle of the floor,

watching as Brian did the same. He realized that they hadn’t seen

much of him since the previous day. Brian’s part in Othello wasn’t

big, so he hadn’t been needed during most of that day’s rehearsal.

Every time Mulder noticed him, he’d been sitting outside the circle

of actors, brows lowered as he glowered at nothing in particular.

But since he was playing Laertes to Mulder’s Hamlet, they were

going to need to work on their swordplay to avoid injury. Shaking

off a sudden mild dizziness, Mulder managed to clear his eyes

enough so he could see what Joe was demonstrating for their big

fight scene.

He really wished Scully would hurry up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Swords clashed and clanged, making Scully’s ears ring before she

ever made it to the chairs set up around the perimeter of the room.

She chose a seat where she could watch the action with one eye

while her brain continued to shuffle the information she’d been

absorbing. There was a tiny fact she should be able to

understand, even with the distraction of the sword play going on in

front of her. Something about the tox screens — atropine,

scopolamine, hyoscine… What was it about them? The shouted

directions from the makeshift stage broke through her

concentration at last.

“Brian, this is just a practice. Settle down and follow the

choreography before someone gets hurt.”

Joe’s words echoed in her ears as Scully focused all her attention

on the combatants. Both men were sweating as they twirled and

lunged at each other. For a rehearsal, they seemed to really be

going at it with a vengeance, even to her untrained eye. Mulder

appeared to be getting the worst of the attack, falling back in a

circular pattern as he parried the wild swipes of his opponent’s

blade.

“What scene are they rehearsing?” she whispered to Suzanne,

sitting next to her.

“The end of Hamlet, when Laertes and Hamlet both die,” she

murmured back.

Suddenly, everything fell into place — the toxicology findings, the

flu-like symptoms and dehydration, Mulder’s strange behavior, the

unlikely theory of suicide — it all made sense. Scully’s gaze

whipped to Mulder’s face, watching the strain in his muscles as he

panted in exertion. He did a quick tuck and roll, bouncing to his

feet right in front of her, too focused on deflecting his opponent’s

sword to notice her presence. But she noticed something —

Mulder’s pupils were fully dilated. His eyes appeared black in his

pale, sweating face. As he spun around, Scully got a good look at

Brian. Ponytail swinging wildly, his eyes were just as dark as her

partner’s, his face equally pale. He wasn’t paying any attention to

Joe’s instructions or admonishments, but kept driving his enemy

back in a relentless attack.

He’s attacking, not just practicing, she realized. This isn’t make

believe to him. He’s trying to kill an enemy, not rehearse a scene.

“Quick!” Scully shouted. “How do they die?”

Several people turned puzzled faces her way, but it was Tracy

who answered. “Laertes scratches Hamlet with a poisoned sword,

then Hamlet takes the sword and scratches him back. They both

die from the same poison.”

As Brian’s blade whistled past her view, Scully jumped out of her

seat. She needed a way to stop the fight without anyone getting

hurt. Mulder was weakening and there wasn’t time to explain.

Launching herself at the combatants, Scully shouted over her

shoulder as she tackled her partner to the floor.

“Someone get Brian down and hold him there, but watch out for

his sword! There’s poison on the end.”

All hell broke loose as Doug and Joe jumped on Brian, wrestling

him face down on the floor with Joe planting his backside on

Brian’s sword arm for good measure.

“The devil take thy soul!” Brian’s Laertes shouted.

Mulder’s Hamlet hollered back, “O villainy! Ho, let the door be

lock’d! Treachery! Seek it out.”

While the two erstwhile enemies struggled to rise, screaming lines

from the play at each other, Scully held on as tight as she could

and prayed someone else would have the presence of mind to call

for help.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Epilogue

Cleveland Clinic

May 7

10:25 AM

“Tomorrow?!”

The exasperated tone of Mulder’s voice made Scully roll her eyes

in frustration. “Give the doctors a break. They just want to make

sure your system is clean. You were pretty loopy when we got

you here last night, you know.”

“Loopy schoompy. Tell me what the hell happened. Things were

a bit fuzzy toward the end.”

Swatting away the long fingers picking at the IV taped to his hand,

Scully perched on the bed. “A simple case of mass poisoning, I’m

afraid — with black henbane.”

“Where did it come from? I thought the old drug store was

unoccupied.”

“We’ll probably never know for sure,” Scully said, and sighed.

“The last druggist was run out of town when his neighbors

discovered he was practicing witchcraft and dispensing potions

along with his regular prescriptions. It was probably harmless, but

not very popular. I never got to tell you, but I found a very old

book on magic in the kitchen cupboards, along with others having

to do with pharmacology and poisonous plants. I didn’t think

anything of it at the time, but now it makes sense. Maybe he was

just trying to practice natural medicine and his customers took it

the wrong way. The store has been empty off and on ever since.”

A smile lit up Mulder’s face. “Did you know henbane was used in

witchcraft to give witches the hallucination of flying? In the

thirteenth century, it was believed that black henbane was used to

conjure demons. It was said if a man wanted to bring love, he

should gather it naked, early in the morning, while standing on one

foot — ” His lecture was stopped by his partner’s raised hand.

“Is that what you do on those morning runs of yours?” Scully

gestured toward the bedstand, where her laptop lay closed. “I

know what henbane was used for, Mulder. I’ve been doing some

research while you were sleeping off your high. Not only did it

give partakers hallucinations, it also made them more open to

suggestion. I think the people affected the worst were the ones

who identified with the characters they were playing. They started

to become that character, even going so far as to kill themselves

or others in the same manner as directed in the play.”

“And after two days of being inside the melancholy Dane, I started

to take on his mind set.” Mulder mulled that one over for a few

seconds before another thought occurred to him. “How come only

some of us were affected?”

“Because not everyone drank tea made at the store.” Scully held

up a small evidence bag with a handful of crumbled leaves inside.

“As far as I can determine, someone found a very old stash of

henbane leaves, probably left behind by that druggist. The others

seem to think it was Andrea who discovered it — she was very big

on tea drinking when she was sober. Mistaking the henbane for

something exotic, she mixed it in with some regular tea leaves and

proceeded to poison the company. After Andrea died, they just

took turns using her poisonous leaves to brew toxic tea.”

Mulder studied the bag at close range, fascinated by the whole

idea. “But henbane is pretty powerful stuff, Scully. We should

have been affected worse, or even killed outright.”

“I think we’re talking about really old leaves here, Mulder. Even

when dried, they retain the toxin, but after so many years, and

diluted with the normal tea, no one was getting too much at one

time.”

Handing back the evidence bag, Mulder squirmed in the bed,

trying to get more comfortable. “How is the rest of the company?

Were many others affected?”

“A third to maybe a half drank the mixture at some point, but all of

them reacted to differing degrees. I had blood samples taken

from everyone just to make sure.” Reaching around his

shoulders, Scully pulled the pillow up and patted it into place. “I

should have seen it sooner from the autopsy reports. Everyone

who died or was injured had either hyoscine, scopolamine, or

atropine in their system. All of them are present in henbane, but I

didn’t make the connection until it was almost too late. By then,

Brian was trying to scratch you with a poisoned sword because he

thought he was Laertes. The death of his sister just reinforced

that particular delusion.”

“Most of that sword fight is a big jumble to me, but I do seem to

remember being knocked down and pinned by a certain G-woman.

You couldn’t have seen anything on Brian’s sword. What

made you assume it was there?”

“I guess I’ve been spending too much time with you, Mulder.”

Scully’s grin pulled an answering one onto Mulder’s face.

“Actually, I’d found a few things left behind in odd corners of the

store. Nothing very interesting, beyond a classic book on

witchcraft, but there were some bottles of old medicines, too. That

should have tipped me off right away. But watching the two of you

attacking each other like you really meant it shook the pieces into

place. All of a sudden I realized that if Laertes killed Hamlet with a

poisoned sword, and Brian thought he was Laertes and you were

Hamlet…”

“Then he’d try to do the same thing to me. What was on the

sword?”

“Liquid cyanide.”

Mulder whistled. “How did he get something like that?”

“He probably found it in one of the cupboards before we got here.

Already immersed in his role as Laertes, he must have figured

he’d need it at some point to take out Hamlet.”

“Which would have been David, if he hadn’t already been hurt.”

Mulder tugged on his lower lip as he slotted everything into place

in his mind. “So Bill thought he was Othello and strangled

Teresa/Desdemona, then killed himself. Just like in the play.

Sean, thinking he was Romeo, tried to poison himself with

atropine, which just happened to be the same thing he was

already ingesting. And Andrea stabbed herself like Juliet, maybe

set off by Sean’s poisoning. And it was all a huge mistake in the

first place.”

Scully caught his gaze and smirked. “Tracy Griffith sends her

apologies, by the way. She’s actually engaged to be married and

has no idea why she was hitting on you like that.”

He smirked back. “Because she was Bianca and I was Cassio.

But I don’t understand about David. He doesn’t fit the pattern, yet

he was hurt.”

“Actually, he fit the pattern, too. I’m certain his tox screen will turn

up positive. He was playing Roderigo, the spy for Iago. He fit

right into the role of the spy’s spy — for us. We just didn’t realize it

because we’d never seen him act any other way. But in the play,

Roderigo is stabbed by Iago, who was being played by Doug

Westler.”

Mulder nodded. “And Doug was the one holding the knife when

David was cut. Are you planning to charge Doug?”

“We both saw it, Mulder. David backed into the knife. Doug was

just as surprised as we were. I don’t know how it happened, but I

think it was just an amazing coincidence.”

“So when can I get out of here and go sightseeing, Scully?” he

asked, changing the subject.

“I told you — tomorrow. And we’re going straight back to

Washington so we can report to Skinner.”

“But tomorrow’s Wednesday. That gives us four days to enjoy

springtime in beautiful Northeast Ohio.” He tried to keep his

expression bland, but she saw through it immediately.

“I know what you’re thinking, Mulder, and the answer is no.”

“Awww, Scully. I haven’t been to Cleveland since it opened.

Can’t we at least stay one extra day? I’m sure we could get some

vacation time if you told Skinner I wasn’t ready for work.”

Fists planted on her hips, Scully trained her most uncompromising

frown on her hopeful partner. “Mulder, you are not dragging me

through the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.”

“Did I mention that the Great Lakes Science Center is right next

door?” Mulder’s eyebrows waggled enthusiastically. “Hands-on

exhibits…OmniMax giant screen theater…lots of scientific stuff.

And they have some incredible shops in Tower City Center

downtown. Even a whole Godiva chocolate store. I heard some

nurses talking about it this morning.”

“Well…” Scully knew it was already a losing battle.

“We’ll get a nice hotel room downtown, my treat. Check out the

Cleveland Art Museum…the Natural History Museum…find out if

the Cleveland Orchestra’s at home. We could even take a

midnight stroll through a cemetery before retiring to our hotel and

some of those funky monkeyshines we didn’t get to the other

night.”

The look of optimistic excitement on his face had Scully biting

back a chuckle. “Maybe we *could* stay for a day or two. Just

long enough to make sure you’re recovered for the flight home.

But you sing even one note of Blue Suede Shoes, and I’m kicking

your butt all the way back to DC.”

“Scully! You know what I like!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The End

Author’s Notes: I guess you can tell that I like Billy Shakespeare.

If you’ve never had the pleasure, you should treat yourself to

some of the best drama on the planet. The particular productions

I kept in my mind while writing this story are as follows:

Hamlet – BBC Production 1981 – starring Derek Jacobi and Patrick

Stewart (not easy to find – check with your county library’s video

collection)

Hamlet – Castlerock Entertainment 1996 – starring Kenneth

Branagh and Derek Jacobi

Othello – (1980 I think) – starring Laurence Olivier, Frank Finley,

and Derek Jacobi (So I like Sir Derek – bite me)

Romeo & Juliet – BBC audio recording – Renaissance Theater

production – starring Kenneth Branagh and Samantha Bond (and

Derek Jacobi as Mercutio!)

My undying thanks to all these wonderful actors for making the

immortal Bard’s words alive and understandable. I never tire of

hearing their stories.

Feedback on this or any of my other stories gratefully accepted

and worshipped at mimic117@yahoo.com

Title: Poison Arrow

Author: Theresa Filardo

Classification: X-file

Archiving permission: Written for I-Made-This Productions’

Virtual Season 9. First two weeks exclusively on VS9, after

that, anywhere. Please drop me a line if you do, so I can

come to visit!

Feedback: theresa@xf-mindseye.com

Summary: The major theme to this story has to do with the

Chinese art of Feng Shui (pronounced “fong-shway”) and the

ancient fortune-telling science of I’Ching (pronounced “yee-

ching”). The theories of these two aspects will play a

significant role in the case presented to Mulder and Scully.

Extra notes appear at the end.

Time Period: Mid April, 2002

Spoilers: For VS8 and 9 and X-files’ “All Things”

Thanks: To Mori for her always excellent beta job and

friendship. Thanks also for the wonderful group of talented

people that make up the IMTP Core group. You’re the best! *****

Hartsdale, N.Y.

125 Columbia Rd.

5:05 p.m.

The day was sharply bright. Pale yellow rays pierced through

glass like shears through fine silk. Old, wrinkled hands

reached up to the light, a light that enhanced the ridges and

valleys of loose skin, rivers of veins, and small brown spots

where the sun had been too generous. They had seen

younger, softer days once, but now showed the ravages of

almost sixty-eight years.

Lili studied her fingers, woven with a bright red silk string.

At the end of the string, past some decorative knots and

tassels, hung an octagonal-shaped medallion with a circular

mirror at the center. As she shaded the angled brightness of

the afternoon sun from her eyes, she gazed upon the Ba-Gua

approvingly. It was a token from her homeland, China, that

had survived tradition, added spiritual comfort to millions of

souls, through thousands of years. Now, it was settled in the

palm of her hand, like a small, sleeping turtle.

About to hang the Ba-Gua medallion in its most useful and

protective location, the front door of her daughter’s new

home, she heard the sound of an impatient shuffle behind her.

It was not an unfamiliar sound, but the noise of the quick,

scratching footfalls invoked a tiny creeping fear at the nape

of her neck, as if she’d been caught doing something

shameful.

“Ma,” a female voice shot against the back of Lili’s head.

To the untrained ear, the hatchet-like interjection would have

sounded harsh and scolding. To Lili, it was just a part of her

daughter’s accent. The bold syllables melded with a subtle lilt

to her words added a certain octave to Hannah’s Chinese-

American speech. She should have tried harder to believe the tone

was not intended to intimidate her, but the tingles insisted on

crawling up her neck.

The shuffle of her daughter’s slippered feet drew nearer and

more determined as their owner realized that her mother was

not going to turn around. Lili frowned. She knew her

daughter did not believe in devices such as the Ba-Gua

medallion to ward off evil spirits, but she needed it — now

more than ever. Lili was convinced the things that were

happening were the fault of bad Chi, or negative energy,

coming into the house, and she knew exactly where it was

coming from.

Lili finally turned and looked up at her only daughter. Her

face was framed by straight-cut horizontal bangs and her

long, jet-black hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Hannah

was the picture of youth, clean-cut, healthy, so sure of

herself, staring down at her mother with the glimmer of pity

in her beautifully slanted eyes. Oh, if she could only

understand.

Lili held out the Ba-Gua. The tiny glimmer of pity in

Hannah’s dark brown irises grew into a fire of contemptuous

disgust. Still, Lili tried.

“This can help,” the older woman implored.

“It WON’T help,” Hannah finalized, in an icy tone.

Lili inhaled slowly, her patience waning just a little more

each time this conversation was doomed to repeat itself.

“It can’t cause more harm than has already been done,” Lili

muttered.

Hannah bit her bottom lip as she raised her eyes to heaven.

The light reflecting off the Ba-Gua medallion shone across

the smooth contours of her face. So perfect in appearance

was she, her mother thought, and so imperfect in her

thoughts.

A small dusting of particles blew into the beam of sunlight,

momentarily disturbing the shine off her daughter’s cheek.

Suddenly, a loud noise crackled through the air as a very

large cloud of white dust blew into the entrance hallway

where they stood.

Hannah snapped her eyes to the right where a workman had

been repairing the ceiling, only to have caused more damage

instead. The young woman blushed bright red in frustration,

took a darting glance down at her mother and hissed through

her teeth before waddling her pregnant belly ahead of her

into the living room to survey the damage. As she watched

the girl retreat, Lili felt a small bit of triumph, and her neck

didn’t feel quite so tingly anymore.

It was a difficult thing, to try and protect someone from

forces they themselves did not believe in. If Hannah had

learned to see things, not only from a practical sense, but also

from a more spiritual, perhaps even mystical viewpoint, she

would have realized much more happiness in her life. It was

all Lili ever wanted, for her daughter to be happy and

prosperous. The way she shut her eyes to the most obvious

solutions just made things difficult.

Lili again turned toward the glass storm door, observing the

purples and greens of sunset. The house was on a nice tree-

lined street. All in all, she agreed her daughter had good taste

in location. The house even sat on a small hill, above street

level, although the neighborhood was quite congested with

residences. There was only about twenty to fifty feet between

each house. In fact, the houses were so close in some places,

one could have passed a cup of sugar out the window to his

neighbor while both were still standing in their own kitchens.

Hannah had chosen well with her house–in theory. There

was plenty of room, beautiful yard, all except for the three-

story apartment building that sat heavily, like a giant red

elephant, across the street. It was, in Lili’s opinion, a source

of bad Chi. Lili lifted the Ba-Gua again to hang it in the glass

window of the door.

She stepped back to admire the object and smiled.

Unfortunately, she could hear unhappy mutterings coming

from the living room as her daughter reprimanded the

workman. The house was falling apart. Hannah had called it

a “fixer-upper.” But how much more damage was supposed

to come after the new owners had moved in? There were at

least six incidents that had occurred, since the young couple

had moved in, that made for even more “fixing-up.”

“It’s an old house,” her daughter had said. “It should be

expected.” Lili simply accounted it to bad luck.

She creaked the storm door open to step outside, away from

the uncomfortable aura that was forming like a thick mist

from Hannah’s argument. The metal door slammed behind

her, and all was quiet for a moment. The argument had

ceased, the wind blew softly, and there weren’t even any cars

buzzing past on the street below.

Lili looked at the apartment building across the street. Empty

windows stared back at her like ugly, gaping mouths. The

dark interiors allowed the outside to reflect on the glass.

The emptiness somehow added to her silent moment, until

she saw a faint pinpoint of light in the central second-floor

window. It was quick and dim in the interior, and the

reflection of her daughter’s white house, ghostly in the

darkness, made it almost impossible to notice. But she did

notice.

She stared harder at the window, as if trying to invoke its

presence again, to confirm, at least to herself, that she had

indeed seen something. Again, all was quiet.

The deafening slam of the storm door behind her shattered

her concentration, and nearly made her lose her balance as

well. A large, hulking figure dressed in white-splattered

clothing breezed by her and stomped down the stone stairway

to the street. He swung a heavy plastic bucket and metal box

into the back of his rusty white van and kicked the rear doors

shut. Before stomping around to the driver’s side of the

vehicle, he glared up toward Lili, who stood unmoving

during his display.

“You can tell that–” he pointed with an angry finger to the

house behind her, “–that–daughter of yours, that she can find

another contractor! I freakin’ quit!”

He then climbed into the van, which rocked under the heavy

weight of its driver and grumbled down the street with a

black cloud of exhaust in its wake. A knot was slowly

beginning to form in the pit of Lili’s stomach.

She went back into the house, and carefully held the door so

that it wouldn’t slam again. A light coating of white dust

blanketed the dark wood floor of the hallway. A single set of

footprints trailed down the hall to the staircase leading to the

second floor. On the bottom step, Hannah sat, tracing her toes

around on the floor, leaving a pattern in the film of dust.

In the living room, Lili saw a pile of broken plaster strewn

across the carpet, and the gaping hole in the ceiling that it had

fallen from.

She heard her daughter sigh.

“It’s not his fault, you know,” Lili said, in a quiet, even tone.

“He’s a professional. He should know why these things

happen, Ma.”

Hannah sat with her hands cradling the round abdomen that

sat heavily between her thighs. Her eyes were closed, holding

back tears of frustration, exhaustion, and fluctuating

hormones.

“Well,” Lili said gently, “He’s not your professional anymore.

He’s not coming back.”

The young woman opened her red-rimmed lids halfway, too

tired to continue the battle with her mother. She just didn’t

have the strength to argue anymore today. Lazily, Hannah

dragged her fingers over her tummy, quietly meditating, as

her mother watched.

“It’s just not fair,” Hannah whispered.

This time, pity shone in the old woman’s eyes, but it was dull

and full of sadness for her daughter’s misfortune. The

shadows of evening grew longer and the sky now filled with

a beautiful orange light. Lili looked out at the sunset, severed

by the dark square form of the apartment building.

And she saw it. The quick glimmer in the same window as

before. Her heart leapt in her chest.

“Ma…”

The voice was wavering, weak and full of fear this time; not

the crisp succinct tone Hannah had used before. And it

instantly gave Lili a greater chill up her spine than any of her

daughter’s exasperations had ever done.

“Ma, something’s wrong.”

When Lili turned to look at her daughter, she was clutching

her abdomen, leaning forward, as if she were trying to protect

the child inside of her. Lili heard the crack of something

breaking.

“What…” The world darkened further as Lili realized what

was happening.

“I have to go to the hospital,” Hannah whimpered.

Everything was moving in slow motion. Lili’s feet felt glued

to the floor.

“Please, Ma–call 911.”

Lili did as she was told. When the ambulance arrived, she

followed her daughter, lying strapped securely to a gurney,

out the front door.

It was not until she was about to lock up the house that Lili

noticed the Ba-Gua medallion lying on the floor, broken into

pieces, the mirror shattered like confetti. The red string

dangled from the bolt she had tied it to earlier, a piece of the

medallion still attached to the end. It had not merely fallen

off because of her carelessness. It was broken deliberately.

Her eyes squinted to small slits, and she muttered angrily

under her breath, “I will stop you.”

In the dark of evening, with red and blue lights flashing,

sirens blaring all around her, Lili climbed into the back of the

ambulance with her daughter.

No one else noticed the steady glow in the central second-

floor window of the apartment building across the street, not

even the old Chinese woman.

ACT 1

Westchester Airport

One week later, 12:45 p.m.

He sat quietly in the terminal reading the fifty-cent local

newspaper, pulled from the mouth of a blue metal vending

machine. His right leg rested casually on his left knee; the

cuff of the neatly pressed pants revealing too-short dress

socks and a small patch of hairy skin. Mulder didn’t care. He

was too engrossed in the local police reports listed at the

middle of section B.

It was amazing how suburbia could claim only half a page of

significant police reports in one day — and the most

interesting seemed to be the one about Mrs. Fagella’s missing

toy poodle, found inexplicably up a neighbor’s tree. He tried

to imagine the tiny white legs of the dog scratching and

scrambling up a narrow tree trunk.

It was encouraging, yet at the same time for someone like

Mulder, it seemed disturbingly boring — too “normal.” It was

something he was afraid of: a normal town, with normal

people, doing normal things; especially when he was going

out on a limb with a case. Scully wouldn’t like it if he

dragged her up here on the first available commuter flight for

nothing.

He folded the paper up and placed it on the light-blue plastic

seat beside him. The airport was small by most standards,

and peppered with few customers in-between flights. Scully

wasn’t hard to spot when she walked across the wide, highly

polished gray floor. She stopped about halfway between the

gate and the waiting area where he sat, slowly scanning the

terminal for him.

Normally, Mulder would have gotten up to greet her right

away, but he was enjoying the view from afar. Several male

flight attendants passed by her and hesitated in their stride

to look back, in the hopes of offering some assistance to the

lovely red-head in the light tan suit. But Scully managed every

time to avoid eye-contact, and stiffened her posture in such a

way to deter any chivalrous act.

At one point, she was fishing through her overnight bag when

a young man in a baseball cap approached her. She smiled up

at him politely, but concealed the expression quickly, so as

not to lead him on or let him get too close. Mulder had seen

her use the tactic often. The smile put people at ease, but then

she subtly constructed her “FBI” mask that said she meant

business. The young man, however, pursued his unwanted

kindness too aggressively. She backed up a step, clicking her

heel hard as she did so. A short statement was made by

Scully, and the man tipped the bill of his hat and made an

extravagant turn on his heel to leave her.

Mulder chuckled at the sight. That young man never even

had a chance. He watched Scully resume the search through

her bag. She pulled a small black object out of one of the side

pockets. She swung her head around once again to survey her

surroundings, then flipped open the cell phone and punched

at the small buttons. A puff of air blew out between her lips,

fluttering the once carefully combed bangs that now hung

loosely in her face. As she held the phone to her ear, Mulder

heard the soft purring sound of his own cell-phone ringing in

his breast pocket.

“Yeah.”

“Mulder, I’m at the airport.”

“I see you.”

“What?” Scully ran her fingers through the rebel strands of

hair as if they had previously been blocking her view. She

slowly turned in place, and nearly made a complete 180

degree turn before she spotted Mulder sitting in the row of

blue plastic chairs at the end of the terminal, chuckling in her

ear. She snapped the phone shut and began walking toward

him, heavy high-heeled clicks echoing across the floor. Even

in her straight and narrow path with her focus on a set

destination, eyes followed her, especially Mulder’s.

He couldn’t break his gaze away from her. She moved like a

tigress on the hunt, smooth, yet deadly when she wanted to

be. His chest constricted at the thought of such an image.

Yeah, he could be hunted by her anytime. Then he saw the

expression on her face. Well, maybe not this time.

Scully took the last few steps between them and stood in

front of her partner’s crossed legs. She shook her head as if

disappointed in him, then curled up one corner of her mouth.

“You know, I could have used your help back there. I assume

you saw the whole thing.” She raised an eyebrow in wait.

Mulder tucked his cell-phone carefully back into his pocket.

“Ah, Scully, you can handle yourself, can’t you?” He stood

up to his full height, crowding her personal space so that she

had to lift her chin to look at his face. She crossed her arms.

“Yeah. Thanks…” She started to walk away when Mulder

gently touched her arm.

“Don’t I get a ‘hello?'” Mulder asked, his lips pursing in a

distinctly fish-like way.

Scully considered a moment. Behind Mulder, the young man

in the baseball cap looked on. Mulder followed her attention,

and noticed him too. Hmm. Perhaps he should have stepped

in and helped her after all. Then he felt small fingers entwine

themselves within his own, and pull down, ever so slightly.

Mulder smiled.

When he turned, Scully pressed her lips to his, quickly,

lightly, but enough to make a certain baseball cap hurry down

the hall with its owner.

“Thanks,” she said, before releasing his hand.

Mulder cleared his throat. “My pleasure.”

They walked out across the parking lot to the rental car

Mulder picked up yesterday. Scully threw her bag into the

trunk and then joined her partner in the front seat.

“So you couldn’t have waited until I finished the seminar to

come up here? This must be some case, Mulder.”

Scully had been invited to speak the night before to some first-

year students at a local medical college. Lately, Scully seemed

to have an unsatisfied air about her. Mulder guessed she just

needed a change of pace. But when she told him about the

seminar, he realized that maybe Scully just needed to validate

herself. She was a wonderfully, exceptionally intelligent

woman. Many times he had felt guilty for trapping her in

something as obscure as the X-files. Perhaps getting back to

teaching for a little while was something that made her feel

she had a purpose, or at least, that all her medical knowledge

wasn’t being wasted.

Nope. Scully was not going to like this one.

“Mmm, hmm.” Mulder pulled the car out toward the main

road and headed south. He didn’t elaborate any further on the

case, which was unusual — quite unusual. Scully picked up

on it right away.

“You do have the proper authorization for this case, don’t

you, Mulder?”

“Mmm…” he vaguely answered.

“You *don’t* have it,” Scully prodded, a squinting eye

sliding over to study her partner.

“Mmm-mm,” Mulder hummed as if he were trying to place

the first two notes to a song.

“Holy rusting shovels, Batman! Who are we going to save

this time?”

“Scully…?” Mulder’s eyes left the road and tried to focus on

this aberration that called herself his partner.

“Oh, he speaks too!” she muttered, sarcastically noting the

inarticulate conversation they’d been having thus far.

“Holy what…?”

“Rusting shovels. It’s what you’ll be using, Mulder, to shovel

yourself out of the ton of you-know-what when *you*

explain this crusade to A.D. Skinner.”

“I’ll tell him…” Mulder groaned at length.

“Mmm hmm.” Scully rested her forehead on the passenger

side window as the blurry greens and browns of vegetation

that lined the streets passed by. The cool pane of glass did

little to ease the dull throb of a headache coming on.

“I take it you didn’t read my notes on the flight,” Mulder

spoke hesitantly. These were always rough waters with

Scully, when he dumped a case with too many loose ends

into her lap. At least he’d let her sleep in her own bed last

night, and hadn’t dragged her up to New York in the middle

of the night. This was a good case, but it was no alien

conspiracy. And besides, he had been feeling a little under-

appreciated himself lately. Wasn’t he allowed to get excited

about anything anymore?

Scully sighed audibly and turned to watch Mulder’s stoic

profile as he drove. She couldn’t conceal a small grin. Good.

He knew he was in the doghouse.

“It’s just that you may as well be some Adam West-type

vigilante with me as your sidekick in tights.”

“Adam West? I thought I’d be at least a Val Kilmer, myself.

Don’t you think…” his voice broke off when he saw his

partner staring at him with darts practically shooting from her

tiny black pupils. He clenched his jaw and stared at the road

ahead.

Scully began again, “Sometimes, I just wish I had more

control over things; a little more say in what we do and don’t

investigate.”

Lead weights filled Mulder’s stomach, heavy with guilt that

threatened to make its way deeper into his abdomen had not

Scully known exactly how he took criticism from her.

“It’s O.K., Mulder.” She reached across to his hand resting on

the transmission grip, and gently caressed his knuckles with

her thumb. “I guess it was nice to be rescued from an

auditorium full of lazy-eyed freshmen. It’s amazing how

‘unexplained death’ doesn’t spark any interest for their post-

mortem examinations. I guess they like boring, run of the

mill…” She stole a glance at him, noting the slight slump

to his shoulders and hollow, unseeing eyes.

She sighed again, as if dissatisfied with the tedious

presentation. What she was really thinking was that she was

being forced to stroke Mulder’s ego again.

“They did, however, perk up quite a bit when I showed them

our slides of the Alien autopsy. Found it *quite* interesting.”

At the lower section of his right cheek, Scully could see

Mulder’s tongue pressing along the inside of his mouth. Then

his lips began slowly to bend upwards, and a shine came

back into his eyes.

“Aw, Scully. You’re just trying to make me feel better.”

“You get us out of this one with minimal flak from Skinner

and I may just slip a couple of those slides in next time.” She

grinned widely.

“I’ll hold you to that.”

“I know you will.”

Mulder stepped on the gas, speeding up a little in his

improved mood. Scully released his hand, slightly nervous

about his one-handed driving.

“Oh, and Mulder…”

“Yeah?”

“Michael Keaton.”

Mulder looked over at his partner, and began singing —

“Nana-nana-nana-nana…”

*****

The Olient Gift Shop

Hartsdale, NY

1:00 p.m.

The dim light of a paper lantern swayed back and forth over

the open box of earthenware teapots like a searchlight in a

prison. Dr. Jonathan Yin reached down, hovered his palm

over one pot, then another and finally picked up the most

beautiful of them to admire. The teapot was a dull tan color

with tiny black speckles and dark blue painted

chrysanthemums grouped on one side. He lifted his glasses

from the bridge of his nose to take a closer look.

“The boy has talent, Lili.”

“Too much, I sometimes think.”

Jonathan replaced his glasses and peered through the empty

shelves to where Lili was stocking some newly arrived

‘Hello-Kitty’ pencils in the next aisle.

“Too much?”

“I don’t trust him, Jonathan.” She pushed a full box of pencils

to the back of the shelf, blocking half his view of her. “I feel

as if I’m paying for my own daughter’s destruction if I

continue to sell his pottery.”

Jonathan looked at the exquisite teapot he held in his hands,

and then down at the box where the matching saucers sat in a

nest of bubble-wrap.

“Better to keep things in the status-quo rather than anger him,

I say. If you really think he is a threat, that is.”

He could hear the tearing of a perforated cardboard box in the

next aisle where Lili crouched to open her inventory. Then

her head popped up again in the empty shelf space, and she

poked her nose forward to see through to her friend.

“Don’t test me, Jonathan,” she said, and blocked his view

completely with a box of pink and red erasers.

Jonathan placed the teapot gingerly back into its box and

wove himself through the red paper lanterns that hung from

the ceiling. He was unusually tall for a Chinese man of his

age. He kept his dark hair combed back and a very neatly

trimmed, although sparse, mustache below his nose. From a

distance, some might say he looked like an Asian version of

Mister Rogers.

As he turned the corner of the aisle to meet Lili on the other

side, he hid his hands deep within the pockets of his tan

cardigan sweater. He did not speak until he was sure Lili was

able to see him in her peripheral vision.

“So when is this agent supposed to arrive?”

“Sometime today.”

Jonathan turned to look at the collection of brightly colored

accessories in the aisle. He picked up a small purse sporting a

green frog with large round eyes. He smiled. His

granddaughter loved things like this. Perhaps he would buy

one from Lili later and take it over to his son’s house this

weekend.

“What did you say his name was again?”

Lili stood up, her knees crackling with the effort. “Agent

Mulder.”

Jonathan nodded. Lili stepped carefully around the large box

of inventory on the floor and looked him straight in the eye.

“Agent *Fox* Mulder.”

Jonathan’s eyebrows shot up far into his hairline. “Fox?”

Lili nodded slowly.

Jonathan looked up toward the ceiling and moved his lips in a

quick mathematical calculation. “Hmm–” he said, nodding in

approval. “That is a very lucky name, now, isn’t it?”

Lili’s eyes sparkled with pride. Not only did Fox Mulder have

a certain knack for solving unusual cases, as she had read in

one of her novelty magazines, but he had a very lucky name

according to the ancient calculations of the I’Ching.

“Hmm–” Jonathan said again, and he replaced the frog purse

onto its hook. “I’ll be in my office. Let me know when he

gets here.”

He moved to walk toward the back of the store.

When Lili had first taken over the Olient Gift Shop after her

husband’s death, she could not afford it alone. Jonathan Yin

had offered to help her, on the condition that he keep a

secondary office in the store to run his Feng Shui

consultations. Lili happily agreed and they had shared the

store ever since. She was extremely thankful to have him as a

friend, and even more so that he was willing to back her up in

explaining Hannah’s situation.

Jonathan stopped about halfway down the aisle and turned.

“Mul-der?”

“Yes,” Lili answered, “and he has a partner, Agent Scully.”

“What is his first name?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Hmm. We shall have to find out when they arrive. I’ll leave

my door open.”

*****

The Olient Gift Shop

1:32 p.m.

The tinkle of tiny brass bells hitting the back of the entrance

door welcomed the two agents as they entered the shop. The

sounds of the busy sidewalk were filtered out as the door

closed slowly behind them. So too was the high afternoon

sun filtered by colorful, translucent plastic beaded curtains

that hung in the windows. They refracted the light in a

hundred points all over the industrial carpeting.

Beyond the entrance was little space before rows of shelving

took up the rest of the gift shop. To the left they could see

shelves filled with various New York memorabilia and rows

of candy. Scully imagined swarms of pre-teen boys hitting

the store after school to squander their allowances on

Pokemon cards and Jolly Ranchers.

She moved her gaze over to the right, scanning the aisles.

The next contained what looked like a combination of books,

magazines, posters and various other literary items. At the

back of that aisle she could also make out a small refrigerator

with a big Pepsi sticker on the glass sliding door.

Mulder, she had noticed, was fumbling with the small

chachka littering the front counter. During his exploration he

found some business cards in a dragon-shaped holder. He

picked one out, ran the pad of his thumb over its embossed

letters, and stuffed it into his breast pocket.

She wandered over to him, watching his movements. He

picked up a small wooden statue that sat next to the register.

“Hey, look, Scully,” he spun around to face her and presented

the miniature representation of Buddha sitting primly in the

palm of his hand.

“I have one just like this!”

“I know. It’s right beneath your fish tank.”

Surprised, he looked down at the statue and then back up at

Scully. “I didn’t think y…”

“Agent Fox Mulder?”

A short old woman with black closely-curled hair and

walking with a timid, slightly bent-over posture approached

them from within one of the heavily stocked aisles.

“Yes, that’s right,” Mulder answered. He placed the statue

carefully back onto the glass counter and then pulled out his

ID badge. Scully followed suit as he continued to speak.

“This is my partner, Agent Dana Scully. You must be Lili

Wong?”

The old woman nodded once, so slowly it almost seemed like

a bow. She studied Scully a moment, as if appraising her,

moving her eyes from the top of Scully’s red head to the tips

of her not-so-sensible shoes. Scully felt her spine go rigid at

the attention. After a few awkward seconds, Lili finally

turned away to speak to Mulder, but the awareness she held

for his partner hung in the air like the heavy scent of incense.

“I am so glad you are here, Mr. Fox Mulder. I was afraid of

getting the wrong kind of attention for my, ah — situation.”

Lili’s words were syrupy-sweet, and she regarded Mulder as

if he were her savior from heaven. Mulder blushed and

pressed his thumbs together in a nervous gesture.

“Agent Scully and I have handled many cases such as yours.

You won’t receive any undue criticism from us.” Hazel eyes

met blue in confirmation. Lili did not acknowledge the

exchange between the two agents. She continued to admire

Mulder quietly.

A single customer came up to them and stood in front of the

register with a clear plastic package that held a pair of

Chinese slippers.

“Excuse me please,” Lili said to Mulder with a quick smile,

and brushed past the agents to help the woman.

When the sale was complete and the brass bells tinkled a

farewell, Lili pushed the door shut securely, turned the lock

and hung a sign in the window that read “out to lunch.”

“Please, Mr. Fox Mulder, I would like you to hear my case in

the presence of a trusted friend, Dr. Jonathan Yin.”

“I have no problem with that. Scully?”

But before Scully could even nod her head in answer, Lili

was already on her way down the center aisle to the back of

the store. The old woman turned once, motioning with her

hand to follow. “Please,” she invited, and continued to the

rear of the aisle.

Scully didn’t quite know what to make of this small Chinese

woman. She wasn’t sure if she should be insulted by the

scrutiny, dismissal and then pure lack of acknowledgement of

her presence as Lili ogled over her partner.

Mulder had at least explained on the car ride over the way

Lili had contacted him: through a written letter addressed

simply to Agent Fox Mulder, FBI, Washington, DC. It was

amazing the letter had found its way to the basement office

with such little information.

As they approached the back of the store, a male tenor voice

called out in Cantonese, followed by a short laugh after it had

finished its undecipherable sentence.

Lili glanced up at Mulder apologetically. “Excuse me,

please…” and then disappeared into the open doorway. On

the wall beside it was a nameplate that read “Dr. Jonathan

Yin, Feng Shui Master” in English, and repeated right

beneath it in Chinese characters.

Lili’s high-pitched voice joined the male tenor, but at a

significantly lower volume. Each syllable between them was

short and clipped, all except the last few vowels from Lili,

which were elongated and seemed to sing downscale. The

whole tone sounded very angry and quite condescending.

Surprisingly, when the two emerged from the office, they

were all smiles. Dr. Yin held out both his arms in welcome

and immediately grasped Mulder’s right hand with both of his

own.

“So nice to meet you, Agent Fox Mulder,” he said, nodding

his head to emphasize his happiness. Dr. Yin then turned

toward Scully, just as enthusiastically, but shook her hand

with a gentler touch. “And *Miss* Scully. A pleasure.” When

he released her hand he stared at her a moment longer, and

Scully thought she could see a smirk threatening to curl the

corner of the good doctor’s mouth.

Scully stiffened again, if not for the fact that these two people

had succeeded in making her feel utterly uncomfortable, then

for putting up her hardest exterior. She was determined to

hold her own no matter how trivial a female law enforcement

officer seemed to them. Of course, that’s what she assumed

their reaction was to her.

“Would you both come into my office? I have chairs inside

and it is much more comfortable than standing among the

paper kites.” Dr. Yin swung his arm in front of himself

dramatically toward a bin that held a bouquet of thin, wooden

sticks and rolled paper.

They followed Yin into his office, and Lili followed them,

walking around the large rectangular desk where her friend

sat, only after Mulder and Scully took their seats opposite. It

was a small space. One could tell it had been sectioned off

from the rest of the supply room next door when it was first

built. Although the office had no windows, there was plenty

of light from the table lamps Yin had situated on the desk and

filing cabinets. He even kept some beautifully flourishing

houseplants. And despite the shameless inspection she had

just undergone, Scully immediately became at ease in the

pleasant surroundings.

“Well,” Dr. Yin began, as he closed a large red bible-sized

book with many ribbons marking its pages, “shall we begin at

the beginning?”

“Uh, yes, please Dr. Yin. I’d like to refresh my memory and

Scully hasn’t had the opportunity to review my notes,”

Mulder offered.

Both pairs of eyes flicked over to look at Scully not more

than a split second, but just enough so that she knew it. She

smiled politely, but swore internally to smack Mulder up the

side of his head once they were alone. It was as if he were

oblivious to Lili’s and Dr. Yin’s attitudes toward her. And

now they thought of her as being unprepared.

“Well then, I shall tell you the background of Hannah’s, ah —

plight,” Yin graciously continued. Lili remained silent.

“You see, this is not the first time Hannah has suffered from

bad luck. It all began again when she returned from college,

with a new education, a new job, and a new boyfriend.”

“Simon. He is now her husband,” Lili broke in. Dr. Yin

looked up at her passively, undisturbed by the interruption. In

fact, he looked almost thankful when he turned back toward

the two agents, as if he might have forgotten the detail.

“Yes, Simon. A wonderful boy. Now, this bad luck we speak

of, it is not at all Hannah’s fault. She is a very intelligent girl,

and she had no problems when she was growing up in

Chinatown or when she was away at school.”

“So, you think that the problem is localized?” Mulder asked.

“Yes, exactly. You see Agent Mulder, Agent Scully, Lili and

I believe that we are all affected by our surroundings, natural

influences that will determine our fates in life. That is not to

say that a person cannot forge his own path in the world, but

there are mystical forces at work that lead us in the right

direction.

“We believe that Hannah has been subjected to some bad

influences, particularly targeted to bring her bad luck. The

reason we have become concerned now, is that it is affecting

lives. You do know that Hannah went into the hospital last

week due to complications with her pregnancy?”

Mulder crossed his arms and looked up at Lili surprised, “No,

I didn’t know that.”

The old woman moved nothing, but her eyelids blinked once

to confirm.

“Hannah is not destined to have a difficult life, Agent

Mulder. And I can assure you that her mother has done

everything in her power to surround Hannah with an

auspicious household when she was growing up. It is Hannah

who has chosen to make some unfortunate decisions.”

“If all of this is based on your understanding of fate, and how

Hannah has unfortunately taken the wrong path, I can’t see

how this is something to investigate for you,” Scully

remarked. She was not seeing the point of being here.

“I must agree with you there, Agent Scully,” Dr. Yin replied,

“I had thought the same thing upon hearing the story for the

first time myself. Are you familiar with the principles of

Feng Shui?”

“No, I can’t say that I am.”

“That may be to your advantage. It may be a good thing to

have an unbiased opinion to view the situation.” He folded

his hands, and pressed his two index fingers against his lips.

His eyes looked far away briefly, and then he refocused them

on Scully.

“But I digress. Feng Shui is the theory that the world is filled

with forces of positive and negative energy. For my purposes,

as a Feng Shui Master, I can consult with people on how

positive energy enters and flows through their homes. A good

flow of energy can lead to a prosperous and comfortable

household.

“Hannah has just recently moved into a new house with

Simon. Lili, in her concern for her daughter’s well being,

requested that I come to help Hannah set up her house

according to the principles of Feng Shui. Hannah flatly

refused.”

“She called it old-fashioned,” Lili said, disappointment heavy

in her voice.

“I almost think that Hannah deliberately chose her house to

rebel against our beliefs,” Yin added. “Have you seen the

house yet?”

Both agents shook their heads.

“When you meet with Hannah, which I’m sure you will soon,

she may take you on a tour of the house. There are many

things wrong with it according to the principles: a long

central hallway, a staircase facing the front door, not to

mention the chaos of renovation construction going on

presently. But the first thing I noticed, even before entering

the dwelling, was its location.”

It was then that Dr. Yin pulled out a blank sheet of paper and

a pencil. On the paper he drew a shape like a camel’s hump, a

house, and a large square object, lined up from right to left.

“In Feng Shui it is good to have a hill at the back of the house

as protection, an anchor if you will. Hannah’s house is on a

hill, the highest point of it being behind the house. Very

good.” He drew a happy face inside the house shape. Next,

his pencil pointed to the large square object.

“This, unfortunately for Hannah and Simon, is a large, four-

story apartment building which sits directly across the street

from their new home. It blocks their view from anything out

the front door, and all the windows of the building face their

house.”

“And this is bad?” Scully asked.

“In a matter of speaking, yes. There are ways to rectify the

problem, but Hannah would have none of it. I only

emphasize the exterior surroundings more because the energy

inside of a house is always easier to control. The landscape,

however, can have a very strong affect on one’s house no

matter how well one protects it from the inside. The

apartment building, in my opinion, has two problems: it

blocks the only chance sunlight has to hit the front of the

house all day and it is a source of ‘shar chi.'”

“Bad energy,” Lili defined.

“Specifically, in straight paths, directed toward Hannah’s

house. They are usually caused by the sharp angles in a modern

structure, and are also known as ‘poison arrows.'”

“And this is what you think has caused problems for your

daughter, Mrs. Wong?” Mulder asked.

Lili hesitated. “For the house, yes. For Hannah…”

Yin looked up at Lili whose forehead had become

increasingly wrinkled throughout the conversation. He

decided to continue for her. “For Hannah, we have another

theory.”

He took his friend’s hand as she stilled herself to explain the

events of last Friday evening. Her explanation was slow,

deliberate, as if she did not want to forget a single detail, a

single feeling that she had during the whole experience. Most

of all, she had a deep concern for all the things Hannah did,

why she argued with the workman, why she was angry, and

then she told them her explanation for Hannah’s abdominal

pains.

“Before we left for the hospital, I noticed the broken Ba-Gua

lying on the floor, shattered. This would really not be much

of a concern under normal circumstances.” She glanced over

to Yin who nodded his approval. “But I had seen the light in

the window, that flash, right before Hannah was in pain. Now

that I think of it, I also remember hearing the Ba-Gua crack.

“What I believe, Agent Mulder, is that someone in the

building across the street has somehow figured out a way to

direct bad energy toward Hannah, to control her. And…” Lili

swallowed hard. “I have a good idea of who might wish to

cause her harm.”

Mulder waited silently for her to continue. Scully pulled out

her notepad and poised her ballpoint pen above a blank page.

Lili inhaled deeply, doubt washing over her face. “His name

is Henry Chin. He is a sculptor; the son of a family friend. He

makes pottery. As a favor to his family, I sell his work to the

public here in the store.” She scrunched her mouth up as if

she had tasted something bitter. “And what do I get in

return?”

Scully leaned slightly to the side, so that Mulder could see

her notepad. On it she scribbled, “PROOF?”

Mulder sat forward in his chair and folded his hands between

his knees. “Mrs. Wong, how can you be sure it’s Henry?”

“This is not the first time Hannah has suffered from bad luck,

as Jonathan had said before. I call it more than coincidence

that Henry has been present for the most tragic occurrences.”

“Would you mind describing some of these occurrences?”

Mulder inquired carefully. The subject was apparently

difficult for Lili to discuss. Either she was afraid of what

Henry would do next, or more likely, she was afraid of

Mulder and Scully discounting her claims.

“Henry has known Hannah for most of her life. Many of the

Chinese-American children around here have. Ever since we

moved here from Chinatown, Henry has had an infatuation

with my Hannah.”

“A crush?” Scully said, fighting to keep the condescension

out of her voice.

“More than that,” Lili continued. “He–how can I say it? He

feels he has a right to her.”

“I don’t understand,” Mulder questioned.

“Let me explain. One of the first incidents that relates to the

current situation is when the two children were still taking

Saturday Chinese school classes. Hannah had made many

friends and Henry was just not getting along well at all, both

in grades and in popularity. For an upcoming dance, Hannah

was going with a boy from the school, and not with Henry,

although he had asked her.

“Now although many teenagers are awkward dancers at first,

Hannah and this other boy were having particular trouble.

They stepped on each other’s feet, Hannah’s dress got torn,

spilled juice on–the important part is that their clumsiness

got so bad, they finally tripped over one another, and the boy

fell right into a glass punch bowl, pulling Hannah down with

him. The bowl broke, and both children had to go to the

emergency room to get stitches. Henry witnessed the whole

thing. Bad luck situation number one.”

Mulder sat back in his chair, committing the little history

lesson to memory. Scully scribbled casual notes on her pad,

still not convinced entirely that this was worth their time. Lili

continued.

“Through her junior and high school years, Hannah suffered

at least three more incidents like this, involving other boys,

and ending with some kind of trip to the hospital.

“By the time she went off to college the bad luck had worn

off some. She met Simon. They fell in love and nothing went

wrong, because of course, Henry did not go to the same

college.”

“Of course,” Scully added.

Lili ignored her. “When the two came home to announce

their engagement, I began preparations immediately. I was so

happy to see Hannah in her bliss. But when Henry got wind

of the coming wedding, he made his presence known once

again. This is when his father asked me to sell his pottery. I

was happy to do it. After all, I was thrilled with my

daughter’s wedding, and was too busy to think anything else

of it.

“Two days before the wedding, Hannah’s father, my husband,

died of a heart attack. Hannah and Simon decided to put the

wedding off, too upset at the tragedy to go on with it. They

would simply reschedule.

“They rescheduled *four* times before they were able to get

married. All due to other tragic events that I will not go into

at this time. Bad luck situation number two.

“Finally, and with a new baby on the way, the newly married

couple decided to buy their own home. Henry, who had been

living with his family all this time, decided to move out and

live on his own. He heard about Hannah and Simon finding a

new house while he was looking for an apartment.

“Now, you must understand, Henry and Hannah have

remained friends throughout their lives, only Hannah is too

blind to see Henry’s intentions. Henry was helping the couple

move some furniture in when he saw the vacancy sign across

the street in the apartment building. And he said to Hannah,

‘Wouldn’t it be so nice to be neighbors again? I will apply for

that apartment this afternoon!'”

“Did Henry get the apartment?” Scully asked.

“What do you think?” Lili spat out, the corners of her mouth

reaching far down the sides of her chin.

“Bad luck situation number three.” Mulder stated.

Yin leaned across his desk toward the two agents. “Of course,

the local police believe none of this. We had hoped, Mr. Fox

Mulder, that you would find some way to prove that Henry is

harassing our Hannah. Her life is in danger, along with her

unborn child’s. And from the stories Lili has just told, we can

only assume that Simon’s life may be in danger as well,” Dr.

Yin summed up.

“Well, that just leaves one thing,” Scully sighed, sounding a

little bored.

“What’s that, Scully?” Mulder inquired curiously.

“How he does it.”

Lili dropped her gaze to the floor. “That I cannot tell you. I

understand that this may be difficult to believe.”

Mulder nodded slowly. “I think we have enough to start with.

It won’t be easy, though.”

“Please, Agent Fox…”

Mulder jerked at the use of his first name. “It’s just Mulder,

please.”

“Pity,” Dr. Yin said, at an almost inaudible volume.

“Agent Mulder,” Lili continued, “I *know* she is in danger.

Please help her.”

Mulder looked at the two older people on the other side of

the desk, Lili still standing, Dr. Yin still clutching her hand in

his own. “We’ll do our best.”

“Thank you,” Lili said to him. Then to Scully, “You are very

fortunate to be working with such a great man, Miss Scully.

I’m sure you will learn much from him.”

Scully opened her mouth to protest — her own intelligence

well-established; but she heard Mulder’s voice answer before

her vocal chords even got a sliver of air into them.

“Scully has handled herself just fine with me for eight years,

Mrs. Wong. You can count on both of us to work very hard

on this case for you.”

As he got up to shake hands with Mrs. Wong and Dr. Yin,

Scully’s mouth still hung slightly open. She pulled herself

together for a proper farewell, and then followed Lili and

Mulder out to the front of the store, not saying a single word

until they exited the shop.

*****

Lili peered through the beaded curtains at the two agents

walking to their car. She heard carpet-softened footfalls

approaching behind her.

“You shouldn’t have called out to me like that. How do you

know neither of them speak Cantonese?”

Jonathan stopped walking.

“All I said was that it was a pity these two were not a couple.

It *is* one of the things I do, Lili — consult with married

couples on their relationships. I had assumed Agent Scully

would be a man as well.”

“So did I,” Lili said, curiously.

Outside, Mulder and Scully stopped by the passenger side

door of their Intrigue. Scully stood with her arms crossed and

her chin pointing out toward her partner’s chest. She said

something to him that made him shrink back and hide his

hands inside his pockets.

Lili slid her hands between two strands of beads for a better

view of the pair.

“I was as surprised as you were that Agent Scully was a

woman.” She glanced back at her friend standing just at the

head of the center aisle, as if he were afraid to cross the floor

to meet her. “Do you think this will affect the way they

handle Henry for us?” she asked, still valuing his opinion

despite his carelessness.

“I will have to refer to the I’Ching again. I didn’t have time to

find a reading for a business partnership before they

arrived…”

Lili looked back out at the FBI agents on the sidewalk. The

conversation had turned into a heated argument. Mulder

reached out to Scully’s shoulder, attempting to calm her. She

lowered her head to look at the concrete as her partner

continued to speak, his own head lowered so that he could do

so at a softer volume. Subtly, he tried to move her closer to

him, but he froze half-way. The hand Mulder rested on her

shoulder, Scully covered with her own. Perhaps this was the

end of the argument, Lili thought.

She continued to watch as Scully pulled Mulder’s hand off

her shoulder and held it out between them. Then, staring him

straight in the eyes, she released it, and it dropped limply to

his side like a wet rope. Scully straightened her posture and

walked forcefully around to the driver’s side door.

“As I said before, it’s too bad…”

“I wouldn’t be so sure they are not a couple, Jonathan.”

Lili released the strands of beads she held aside and allowed

them to sway back into place. When she turned to walk

toward the back of the store, Jonathan was standing there

with an impish grin.

“You think…?”

“Let’s take a look at those readings, shall we?”

ACT 2

128 Columbia Rd.

Apt. 2C

3:30 p.m.

Henry inhaled the ironically dry, salty smell of wet clay as he

ran his fingers over the gray lump spinning before him. He

reached down to grab a soaking sponge and then squeezed it

over the clay, the water running down its sides, making it

supple to his touch.

He applied gentle pressure to the form, pushing upward so

that as it spun, the clay grew taller in his hands. Where the

clay was too wet, it ran through his fingers and down his arm

in thin, meandering rivers. He loved to see the clay take

shape. It obeyed his every movement, followed his caresses

and became beautiful because of him.

Hovering his fingers over the spinning object, drips of gray

liquid fell onto it and disappeared on the surface, becoming

one with the mass. At just the right moment, he plunged his

fingers down into the center of the clay. His hand, now

engulfed by the object, moved subtly to the right and left,

cradling the edge into his palm. He manipulated and

massaged the inside and it became slick and smooth, it took

on a form, a life of its own. He had done that. He had made it

what it was.

Henry slowly took his foot off the electronic pedal, and the

wheel slowed. A cool breeze blew from the window he faced

and a chill shot across his forehead. He had been

concentrating so intently on his work that he had begun to

sweat. Absently, he smeared the back of his hand on his face

to mop up the perspiration, leaving a trail of gray behind that

was reminiscent of war paint.

He admired his perfect vase as it sat, still wet, but spots of

white began to appear randomly as the air touched its surface.

His eyes fluttered with the breeze, and followed its path to

the window, then past the window to the small white house

across the street. Inside the top floor window of the house, he

could see a woman reclined on her bed, and if he didn’t know

there was a TV right below the sill, he would have thought

she was looking back at him.

“Oh, Hannah,” he sighed.

It was good to see her at home, especially in her pregnant

condition. That burden was something she should never have

had to bear. Hannah was much better off staying home while

she had a child on the way. He still could not believe she and

Simon were both planning to work after the birth. What kind

of a family was that? Henry could most assuredly provide a

better household than Simon ever could.

He got up and stood by the window’s left edge, careful not to

give himself away through the glass’s reflection of the house

outside. He knew it protected him from her sight. It should

have been *his* child inside of her. He should have been the

one she married. His stomach began to turn as he thought of

Simon becoming intimate with Hannah. Her husband would

touch her in places meant only for himself, not this stuck up

businessman who worked fifteen hours a day.

He leaned on the window with his forearm and slid it closed

as he gazed at Hannah. The afternoon was becoming chilly.

After a while, she rose to turn off the TV. Henry was

instantly enthralled, held his breath and became still, so as

not to disturb the moment.

She walked carefully back to the bed and began to write

something in a small, black daily-planner. God, but she was

beautiful. His heart constricted as he thought of the years of

unrequited love he had felt for this woman. It just wasn’t right

that she belonged to someone else. Friendship just wasn’t

enough anymore.

He spun around violently and stormed toward the back of the

room, where he kept his personal sculptures. Here, he

experimented with several different materials: wood, metal,

glass, ceramic. On a large wooden worktable lay his latest

group of pottery, all unfinished, waiting to be glazed and

baked in the kiln.

They were all shapely vases, some tall, some short, but they

all had the same characteristics of the one he had just

finished. They sat in a neat row, like eight bottom-heavy old

biddies waiting for their tea. They were the types of women

that mocked him as a child, who “encouraged” him to grow

up and become a respected businessman — the type of man

Simon had become.

Henry stood silently, but his eyes nearly glowed with the

fiery anger building up inside him. He didn’t deserve to be

treated like that! Not from anyone–not even Lili–especially

not Lili. Why should he be denied?

In one fell swoop, Henry crashed his arm through all eight

vases like a baseball bat, knocking them to the floor. They

clanked and shattered against the linoleum and left white skid

marks of dust on impact. It looked as if there had been a

million tiny landmines set off at his feet, and the explosion of

noise would have suggested nothing less.

He kicked at the larger pieces of fallen pottery and proceeded

to search through a scattering of tools on the table, tossing

those he didn’t want carelessly aside to join the dusty

fragments on the floor. Finally, he picked up the tool he was

looking for. It was a woodworker’s awl. He used it mostly to

etch details into the clay–not its intended use, but it worked

for him. He admired its sharp point.

He held the tool in front of him, bobbing it gently in his hand,

keeping in rhythm with his heavy breathing. The adrenaline

had consumed his thoughts and all he knew now was that he

could hear his heart pounding — the very heart that was not

allowed to feel love.

The more he toyed with the awl, the more his bobbing hand

inched closer and closer to his chest. The pain of the tool

plunging through his ribcage to the soft organ beneath would

at least match the terrible anger coursing through him at this

very moment.

“Hannah–” he whispered,”–you will be mine someday.”

He lifted his hand up, clutching the sharp tool above his head,

directing the point straight for his heart. Yes, he could do

this…

He lifted the awl higher and screamed out his rage,

“Noooooooooo!” He brought it down fast and hard, missing

his chest by millimeters, swung himself around and released

the tool so that it went flying across the room–straight into

the round base of the still drying vase on his pottery wheel. It

stuck into the clay like a dagger in soft flesh, yet there was a

strange sound as it hit–like the pop one hears from a dropped

light bulb.

Beyond the vase he saw Hannah stumble by her bedroom

window, as if she’d snagged her foot on a throw rug. She was

oblivious of the tortured soul across the street, nor did she

hear him scream. Her window was closed. So was Henry’s.

The breeze blew in and whistled into Henry’s apartment,

through a tiny hole in the window pane, exactly the same

diameter as a 4″ woodworker’s awl.

*****

Hartsdale, N.Y.

125 Columbia Rd.

3:50 p.m.

Mulder unfolded himself from the passenger side of the

Intrigue and closed the door with his backside. He leaned

against the car and loosened his tie, breathing in the crisp

spring air. He heard, or rather, felt Scully slam the driver’s

side door. A lump sprang up from his stomach in reaction to

the jerking motion of the car. Had he known that Scully was

going to be in such an irate mood after lunch, and then take

her frustrations out in her driving, he would never have

ordered fajitas from the Mont Parnasse Diner.

A chili pepper-scented burp escaped through his lips. He

rubbed his stomach with care, as if to soothe it back into

submission. Scully came around the car to face him, her

eyebrow raised in question.

“You okay, Mulder?”

“Mmm. Fine.” He burped again. “Pardon me.”

Scully suppressed a grin with her fist and turned to look up at

Hannah’s house, hiding the humor in her eyes from him.

After a moment she returned her gaze. “Well…”

“After you.” Mulder waved his hand toward the rocky

staircase leading up the hill to the modest white house. The

ascent was quite treacherous, like a dried up riverbed

someone had decided to build a staircase out of. Mulder tried

to imagine the EMS workers trying to carry Hannah down in

a stretcher. That must have been no easy task.

It took a while before anyone responded to the doorbell.

After all, Hannah had been ordered to bed-rest since her little

incident. Someone was definitely home, though. The locked

metal storm door was the only thing keeping visitors outside.

Through the glass, they could see a heavier red-painted door

swung open against the wall and a long hallway that

stretched back to the staircase leading to the second floor.

Mulder wondered why that was bad in terms of Feng Shui.

He would have to hit the library later tonight.

Mulder took the opportunity to look around. Across the street

he saw the infamous apartment building where Lili and Dr.

Yin believed some of Hannah’s bad luck had been generating.

It looked friendly enough to him: a Tudor-style structure with

a tiled roof and only about four floors to it. It was pretty dark,

though, he had to admit. The sun was situated in such a way

that if he squinted his eyes the building was no more than a

silhouette against the blue sky.

He felt a plucking at his elbow, Scully’s attempt to focus his

attention. Hannah was coming to the door. The first thing

they saw was her pink slippered feet carefully stepping down

from the second floor. She made her journey slowly,

balancing on each step before venturing to the next.

Whatever happened to her last week must have taken a

serious toll on her.

When she arrived at the door she had a pleasant smile on her

lips, but one could notice a tiny crease in her forehead that

eluded to an emotion other than welcome. She knew who

they were, why they were here, and who had sent them. Let’s

say she wasn’t entirely pleased to have visitors, especially

those flashing badges.

“Welcome agents,” Hannah greeted, pushing the squeaky

door out to them.

“Hello, Mrs. Park. I’m Agent Scully and this is Agent

Mulder.”

Hannah nodded curtly. “I’ve been expecting you. My mother

told me you’d be coming.” Hannah motioned her head toward

a doorway off the main hall and led them into the living

room. As she hobbled ahead, she held her back with one hand

and stretched the other out to balance herself against any

obstacles — obstacles of which there were many to watch out

for.

Mulder and Scully stepped around some paint cans by the

front door, two-by-fours leaning against the doorjamb of the

living room and a pile of rubble unexpectedly making its

home on the oriental rug next to the couch.

“I must apologize for the mess. We’ve been re-modeling and

my contractor quit last week right before my…” Hannah

lowered herself onto a plush mint-green couch, her weight

denting the cushions. “Well, I’m sure you know the whole

story. What can I help you with?”

Scully began the interview. “As you know, Hannah, your

mother believes your life to be in danger. Can you tell us

anything about that?”

The pregnant woman leaned back in her seat and sighed

heavily. “Unfortunate things happen, Agent Scully. My

mother just blows things out of proportion.”

Mulder wandered around the living room while Scully

continued to question Hannah.

“So you don’t believe that you are in danger?”

“Not in the slightest, Agent Scully,” she answered, apparently

becoming bored with the same question.

Scully inhaled and took notes on her pad. “And your

pregnancy… We heard you suffered from complications last

week. Have you had a difficult pregnancy up until now?”

Scully tried to be delicate in asking the question. Mulder

heard her voice soften, as if she were asking Hannah if a

loved one had passed away.

It brought back memories, the thought of having difficulty

conceiving a child. Old, not quite forgotten guilt tickled the

top of his stomach. All of a sudden his lunch didn’t feel so

loose anymore, but more like a solid brick.

Damn it. How did he always manage to put Scully in

torturous situations like these? Not only had their interview

with Lili and Dr. Yin gone badly, but now, when he had

offered to let her take the lead with Hannah, yet another

pitfall opened up beneath him. He felt like protecting her, yet

he wanted to allow her the professional courtesy of not

second guessing her actions. Either way, he felt like it was all

going to end badly for him.

Was he really that blind as to be unaware of Scully’s needs?

What happened at the airport made him feel like he wasn’t

doing enough for her. What happened at the gift shop made

him feel like he was covering for her too much. She certainly

didn’t like that. So what was he supposed to do, and was it his

place to decide? Maybe he was too self-centered. Or maybe

he was suffering from some bad luck of his own.

Mulder paced the living room as Hannah replied, “It wasn’t

easy getting pregnant.” She paused and lowered her eyes to

the floor. “I almost expected the complications.”

“What do you mean?”

“My mother had several miscarriages before I was born. I

have no other siblings because of her difficulty conceiving. I

could only assume it was hereditary…” She pulled at a loose

string on her dress. “… I guess I assumed right.”

Mulder stopped and craned his head upward to look at the

gaping hole in the ceiling where a large amount of plaster had

fallen. He found it strange that there were no other cracks in

the plaster leading to the hole, nor were there any signs of

water damage.

“What can you tell us about bad luck, Hannah?” Mulder

interrupted, as he still scanned his surroundings.

Both women turned to look at him, Scully knitting her

eyebrows and Hannah with a surprised, dumfounded

expression.

“Oh, no,” Hannah chuckled under her breath, but with no

humor lightening it. “You *have* been talking to my mother

too much.”

“Well, it seems you’ve had a long history of personal injury

and unfortunate circumstances. From what your mother and

Dr. Yin have said…”

“Dr. Yin! My God, she *is* serious this time!” she

exclaimed. Then softly to herself, “I can’t believe it. She’s

gone too far.” She shifted her weight again, seemingly

uncomfortable whichever way she sat.

“Agent Mulder, I have sustained personal injuries, but they

were all minor. Some stitches here, a broken leg there–and

all so long ago. What can you expect from a clumsy

teenager?” She paused and appraised his stance. “Tell me,

Agent Mulder, you being in law enforcement and all, how

many times have you been in the hospital?”

Scully’s eyes widened and she scrunched up her lips

suppressing a snort. Mulder shifted from foot to foot,

Hannah’s squinting eyes scrutinizing him mercilessly.

“Uh–more times than I can count. But that’s part of my job,

Mrs. Park. You seem to be a magnet for a considerable

amount of bad luck without looking for it.”

“Coincidence with ancient mumbo-jumbo. I don’t believe in

fate and rivers of positive and negative energies determining

it for me. I can handle myself Agent *Fox* Mulder. My

mother just hasn’t learned to accept that yet.”

Mulder winced at his own name for the second time that day.

Only this time he had good reason; Hannah had said it as if it

were a curse. “Why this obsession with my first name, Mrs.

Park? I noticed your mother tried to address me by it earlier

today.”

“Hmm.” Hannah licked her lips, as if considering whether or

not she wanted to say anything. “I suppose there’s really no

harm in telling you. It’s another of her ‘divine theories,'” she

said, with a sneer. “In the I’Ching, or the ‘Book of Changes,’

every letter of the alphabet is designated a mystical number.

When you add the numbers in your name, take into account

your age and sex, you come up with a calculation

determining your basic path in life. Your name Agent

Mulder, Fox, adds up to nine. It is the luckiest of all

solutions. Your path is deemed as extremely auspicious. It is

no accident that my mother requested your assistance.”

Mulder stopped pacing. Had Lili called him in especially

because he validated her beliefs? Was he merely a pawn to

convince Hannah that her mother was right? He glanced over

to Scully. Now he knew what it was like to feel helpless

against unfounded prejudice. And he knew he was back in

the dog house again.

“So you don’t believe in any of these claims your mother has

made backed up by Feng Shui or this I’Ching you speak of?”

“If I were to base my life on the sayings in an ancient mess of

fortunes you’re likely to find on a slip of paper inside a

cookie, I would have been rich and famous by now.”

“Could bad influences have changed that?”

“No,” Hannah said with punctuation. “The readings are

simply wrong. I don’t believe in them and I shouldn’t be

forced to just because my mother does.”

“Do you despise her so much because of these beliefs? Why

make your home so close to her then? Why choose a house

that is the direct opposite of what she thinks is ideal?”

Hannah became still. She folded her hands over her bulbous

abdomen. Her words were hushed. “I never said I despised

her, Agent Mulder. She is the only family I have. Just

because someone has different beliefs, even if you know it

will hurt them if you deny them to their face, doesn’t mean

you can’t love them all the same.”

Mulder instantly felt like a heel, but a tiny glimmer at the

back of his brain told him he had discovered something

interesting about Hannah.

“I’m sorry, I…”

“Simon and I live here because it is convenient to the train

station. He works late hours for his office in Manhattan. I like

this neighborhood because I know it. I grew up here. My

friends are here. In fact, my friend Henry lives right across

the street there.” She pointed out the picture window to the

apartment building across the street.

“About Henry–How good a friend is he?” Mulder tested,

sitting on an ottoman next to the chair where Scully had

remained after he so rudely stole the interview from her.

“Does this have any bias linked with it caused by my

mother?” Hannah huffed out, blowing her straight-cut black

bangs from her face.

“I’m asking *you* the question, Hannah.”

She turned her eyes away from him and began playing with

the string again. “I’ve known him all my life. He is a very

close friend and a wonderful craftsman. He–he has always

helped me through the most difficult times of my life–” She

looked up at Scully this time. “–the times my mother and

some others would account for bad luck. At least he lived in

the real world and tried to ease the pain instead of blaming

spirits.”

Scully closed her notebook and looked at Mulder as if to say

“Can we go now?”

Mulder stood up. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Park. I

wish you all the best of…” he paused and second-guessed his

statement, “Uh, I hope your pregnancy comes to term with no

further difficulties.”

Hannah made some shifting movements so that she could see

her guests to the door.

“No, no, please don’t get up, Mrs. Park,” Scully scolded her

gently. She shook the woman’s hand in farewell. “We can

show ourselves out. Thank you again.”

The storm door slammed behind them as the two agents left

the small white house.

“So, Mr. Fox Mulder, how do you propose to continue this

case if the victim doesn’t even believe there is a case to begin

with? And I have to admit, the argument to the contrary lacks

conviction.” She crossed her arms and followed her partner’s

stare across to the dark Tudor apartment building.

Mulder bit at his thumbnail. “There’s something here, Scully.

I don’t know how to explain it to you right now. Call it a

lucky hunch–a little queasy feeling I have in my stomach.”

He rubbed his gurgling belly, suddenly reminded of his

volatile lunch.

“That’s not luck, Mulder. That’s revenge.”

“Oh, you’re a regular comedian, Scully. I’m sure you’re

having quite a laugh at my expense about now.”

Scully slid her tongue on the inside of her cheek. She said

nothing.

Mulder cleared his throat and fumbled for his notepad. “So,

what do you say we get our last interview over with?” He

flipped to a page with an address and apartment number

scribbled on it. “We’re here already. Might as well.”

“Fine.” She started down toward the street. “But if there’s

nothing to go on here, Mulder, I’m calling Professor Jenkins

and telling him I’ll be in tomorrow for that Saturday evening

seminar.”

Mulder double-checked his notepad. “Apartment 2C,” it read.

He studied the windows on the second floor of the building

across the street.

“Fine,” he said, then followed his partner.

*****

He had watched them; watched them get out of their shiny

red car, enter Hannah’s house and exit a short time later. He

watched these neatly-dressed people, probably cops or

something to that effect, step down from the height of the

small white house and down the rocky staircase. He watched

the tall man in his dark g-man suit stare directly at him, yet

not knowing that he actually did so.

They passed by their car. They weren’t leaving yet. They

were coming this way.

Henry’s eyes flitted wildly around his studio, to the fragments

of broken pottery all over the floor, his ruined vase on the

wheel, the gray streaks all over his t-shirt and face.

“Ah, hell.” That’s exactly what it looked like.

The buzzer from the intercom zipped through the air, and

shuttered up his spine. He had expected the sound, but the

anticipation of it made it seem all that much louder. He

helplessly took a last look at his studio, and then pressed the

“speak” button.

“Hello?”

“Henry Chin?” A muffled female voice asked through the

grating of the speaker. The system was so old, he thought it

might be working on a string and two cans hidden inside the

wall.

“Yes? Who is this?” For a split second, he almost convinced

himself they were just salespeople. Salespeople wore suits

like that too, didn’t they? Maybe they were just making their

rounds, and he was the next lucky customer to view some

rubber nipples or something. He made a mental note to stop

watching Ren and Stimpy.

“My name is Agent Dana Scully and I’m with my partner,

Agent Mulder, from the FBI. Would you mind giving us a

moment of your time?”

Damn. Maybe he could stall them. “You got ID?”

“Yes, sir. If you let — up — show — you.” The audio was

breaking up.

“All right, all right. Come on up.” He held the buzzer down

for five seconds, then ran to the bathroom to wipe a damp

towel over his face. His cheeks were nicely pink after the

quick scrub, and had barely enough time to cool to his

normal skin tone by the time the doorbell rang.

He slid the chain lock out of its slot, and then replaced it. He

wasn’t ready yet. What was he getting so nervous about? The

police didn’t believe in this stuff. He was golden. He just had

to blow it off.

He thought of Lili and her smirking little grin, waiting to see

him caught at last. She was the only one who believed. Even

Yin simply humored her. She acted like Henry was her child,

as if she had a right to tell him what he should and should not

do. She told him to stay away from her daughter, but he just

couldn’t. He loved her too much. The only way he’d be able

to have Hannah was to take things into his own hands,

slowly, over time, subtly. Lili saw through it. She knew his

plan. And now she was using the government to stop him! He

was appalled! Despite his need to stay calm in front of the

two agents out in the hall, his heart began doing jumping

jacks — on double-time, no less.

He took a deep breath, unlatched the chain again and opened

the door.

They walked into his apartment and stood in the middle of

his studio space. Henry silently wished he had an entrance

hallway or at least a living room so guests didn’t have to walk

straight into his work area. Scully stepped carefully around

some stray bits of broken vase. Smaller fragments crackled

under her high-heeled shoes.

Scully flashed her badge. “I believe you wanted to see this.”

Henry nodded, struggling to keep his demeanor casual.

“My partner would like to ask you a few questions,” she

glanced around at the mayhem, “if you’re not too busy.”

Her partner flinched strangely at his introduction. What was

it that skimmed across his face? Guilt? Dread? Or was he

simply caught off guard? It disappeared quickly, and the way

Mulder began his interview caused Henry to forget the

instance almost immediately.

“What do you know about Feng Shui, Henry?”

“What?” Henry stepped back and bumped into his worktable.

He tried to cover up his clumsiness by resting his left buttock

on the edge of the table and crossing his arms.

He was completely taken back by this man’s forward

question. He didn’t beat around the bush did he? But did he

know where he was going with this? Henry hoped to count

on the agent’s ignorance of the subject.

“Feng Shui,” Mulder repeated, “Do you know of it?”

“Yes, but I can’t tell you much about it, really.” Henry

shrugged his shoulders.

“What can you tell us?”

Henry was starting to get nervous. Who would have thought

the conversation would have started this way? Who was this

guy?

“Nothing. I really don’t know anything.”

“I see.”

Scully walked behind her partner and admired a large metal

sculpture Henry had started working on last week. It was no

more than a sheet of bent aluminum now, but he was

planning a large work, a great one, something he could show

off, maybe even get into a gallery. Mulder followed Henry’s

attention.

“You’re an artist, Henry?” Mulder asked.

“Yes.”

“Hannah Park seems to think you’re quite talented.”

“What do you know about Hannah?” Henry shot out. That

was it. He was convinced now that this was all Lili’s work.

Scully remained silent, although Henry couldn’t ignore her.

Her red hair was momentarily disturbed by a light draft. She

turned toward the source and wandered over to the far

window. She dragged her fingers along the base of the sill, as

if to check the integrity of the sealed window. It was still

closed. Then she touched the pane, running her finger over

one spot several times — *the* spot.

Henry could feel a tiny trickle of sweat running down his

back. This was all too much. How could they prove it? How

could they even suspect such a stupid, superstitious lead such

as Shar Chi? They couldn’t possibly believe Lili — could

they? Did they know what he was capable of? He watched

Scully scratch her nail along the edge of the small round hole

in the glass.

“We’re following a case for Hannah and her mother, Lili

Wong. Since you are both a friend of Hannah’s and an

employee, so to speak, of Lili’s, we thought you might have

some insight on the case at hand.”

Henry attempted to look concerned. “What’s happened? Is

everything all right?” he said with some urgency.

“Well,” Mulder side-glanced at his partner, “We’re still trying

to determine that. Lili seems to think that Hannah’s life is in

danger. And, according to Lili, her daughter seems to be in

denial of it.”

“Hannah’s in no danger.”

“Oh?”

“If this has to do with what I think this has to do with, Lili is

dragging you along for a ride. I’ve seen her use the argument

of her ‘bad energy’ attacking Hannah before, Agent Mulder.”

Yes, that was it, debunk Lili and all would be fine. He let out

a loud, fake-sounding laugh. “Can you believe that she’s even

tried to blame *me* for some of Hannah’s bad luck?

Amazing, really.”

“Yes, amazing.” Mulder stuffed his hands into his pockets

and nibbled at his bottom lip.

Henry was gaining momentum in his white lies. “I’ve actually

been the one to support Hannah against her mother. Yes!

She’s been trying to convert us for years. When she’s going to

start living out of her mystical dream world… Well, we can

only hope it’s not part of the aging process, if you know what

I mean.”

Mulder rubbed his chin and studied Henry for a moment, as

if trying to read his mind. He pursed his lips. “It is interesting

that Simon has remained quite silent about the whole

situation, don’t you think? Her own husband.”

A heat rose in the young Chinese man’s cheeks, and they

became pink as if he had rubbed the towel over his face

again. His hatred of Simon, that thief, was not easy to hide.

Through gritted teeth, he commented, “I’m sure Simon

supports his wife in anything she does or believes. That’s

what a husband is for, isn’t he?”

“One would hope,” Mulder answered.

Scully moved away from the window, noticed the impaled

vase on the potter’s wheel, dismissed it with a raised

eyebrow, and then came to stand beside her partner. Such a

strange pair. It was as if they had split up their observational

skills between them in order to achieve a short and efficient

interview. The psychological and visual scrutiny was

beginning to bug him. He had to get rid of these two before

he slipped up.

“So what do you want from me, Agent Mulder?”

“Well, as a friend of Hannah’s, I would ask that you keep an

eye out for her. If anything comes to you, anything you can

think of that might help us protect Hannah from getting into

trouble, we’d appreciate it.”

“No problem.” Henry stretched out his hand to Mulder.

The tall agent hesitated, then placed his hands back into his

pockets. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Chin.” Mulder

walked past Henry and left the small stuffy studio, followed

closely by his partner.

Only when they had climbed into their car on the opposite

side of the street did Henry let out the breath he held. What a

situation! That was too close for him. He violently pulled the

awl from it’s stuck position in the drying clay and tossed it

onto his work table.

He stared out the window at the white house on the hill, it’s

shingles brightly lit by the late afternoon sun — the only sun

the front of the house would receive all day.

His eyes blurred with gathering wetness, and his throat felt

hot and constricted. It just was not fair. He had to change his

life. He had to make things right, be the master of his own

fate. He dragged himself over to the unmade bed in the

corner of the room and buried his face in the soft sheets. All

he wanted to do was sleep. He wanted to sleep until all his

reality melted away into darkness.

The setting sun changed the color of the room from orange to

purple to gray, and finally, to black. Henry slept soundly,

dreamlessly, but contentedly aware that his two visitors did

not have a ‘smidgen’ of a case against him.

ACT 3

Comfort Inn

Route 9

5:30 p.m.

“Where’s the closest library um–Marie?” Mulder asked,

squinting his eyes to read the receptionist’s name tag, as

Scully signed for her room.

“Only about ten minutes down the road from here. I think

they’re open until nine,” the heavy-set, middle-aged woman

informed him.

“I can’t believe you’re asking me to stay the night here,

Mulder. Why can’t we just go back tonight?” She handed the

woman the completed forms, and took the set of keys

dangling from her pudgy, though extravagantly, manicured

fingers.

“What I can’t believe, Scully is how you could have missed

everything we saw today.”

“And what did we see, Mulder? As far as I’m concerned,

there is no case here.”

“What?” He stood in front of her, blocking the path to the car

where she was heading to retrieve her bag. “At least two of

the people we saw today are in denial of the facts, Scully.

There is something here. Unfortunately, Lili is the only one

willing to admit it.”

Scully stepped to the left. Mulder blocked her way. She

stepped to the right. Again, Mulder’s towering body was a

wall to her. Ugh! She hated these power games he played

with her. “Mulder, get out of my way.”

“Not until you hear me out, Scully. We have proof that

Hannah has been, and is in trouble, right? If you take a look

at my notes, you’ll find her medical history–not the most

recent of course. Lili sent them to me last week…”

Scully stared at him, the pinpoints of her pupils sharp with

annoyance.

“All right, I should have prepared you for that before meeting

with Lili. But Scully, we have to put the pieces together.

Something is causing this. Nobody is that unlucky. Do you

really believe the things Henry told you? He was sweating

like a pig the whole time we were in his studio. He knows

something, Scully. I know it.”

“Since when does overactive perspiration automatically make

someone guilty?”

“It’s suspicious, Scully.”

“Mulder,” she sighed, weary of her fight. “All the things that

happened to Hannah have completely sound and logical

explanations. She was a clumsy child. She was unlucky in

love. She bought a house that was a fixer-upper. She’s had a

difficult pregnancy. These things happen, Mulder. They

happen to ‘normal’ people.

“All I can see here are three people who are just very

unhappy. They’re worrying about one another’s lives instead

of focusing on their own. No one can control another person.

It just doesn’t work that way. It’s no use blaming ‘bad vibes’

either. I tend to agree with Hannah. This is all blown out of

proportion, and I can’t believe you were dragged into it–and

me with you.”

She pushed past him to open the trunk of the car. “I’m tired,

Mulder. I’m going to use this time to prepare for my next

seminar with Professor Jenkins.” She walked toward room

eight, but turned back before unlocking the door. “I’m going

to give you until tomorrow morning.”

Mulder guffawed. “Is that an ultimatum?”

She closed her eyes, and squeezed her key so hard that when

she opened her palm, a neat little impression had been left in

her skin. “I hate doing this, Mulder, but I’m not going to

chase around weak hunches just because you have a ‘feeling’

about this case. I have things that I want to do too — that are

important to me. I hope you can understand that.”

“This is work, Scully, not personal free-time.”

“Whatever you say. You’re the senior agent.”

Mulder threw himself into the car and made a dramatic show

of pushing the seat back to make room for his long legs. “I’ll

be at the library.”

“Fine.”

He slammed the door and rolled down the window.

“Tomorrow morning,” he called out to her.

“That’s right,” she said bluntly and entered her motel room.

Before she had closed the door all the way, she heard the

engine of the Intrigue revving wildly as Mulder backed out of

the parking space.

If Mulder came back tomorrow having made no headway,

she would go to Lili and drop the case herself, no matter how

badly she felt about his ego. This was work, as he had said,

not personal.

So why did she feel like she was breaking his heart?

*****

Room 8

Comfort Inn

7:35 p.m.

An hour later, Scully was still staring blankly at her laptop.

She had hoped to prepare a short summary of her

presentation for tomorrow night, but had only gotten as far as

naming the file and placing a heading at the top of the page.

She was thinking about Mulder.

It shouldn’t surprise her that he was willing to throw himself

whole-heartedly into the case. It just felt like a defiance this

time, and it turned her off to the investigation completely.

Was she really the one making this a personal battle?

She glanced down at her watch and tapped the crystal

absently. “Tomorrow morning… tomorrow morning…” she

whispered. She really didn’t know anything about the case

herself. Maybe she was being unfair to him. She was pretty

convinced the facts were leading nowhere, but was that

enough for Mulder? No. Was it enough for her?

She opened her e-mail program, sighed heavily, and began to

type. Mulder deserved as much proof from her, on the

contrary, as she needed from him to confirm Lili’s case. She

grumbled and typed simultaneously. When she was finished,

she read over the e-mail before sending it.

::

::Professor Jenkins,

::

::I regret to inform you that I will not be able to attend

::the seminar tomorrow night. I have been called in on a case

::that requires some special investigation on my part.

::I apologize for the short notice, and hope to assist you

::in further seminars.

::

::Sincerely,

::Dana Scully, MD

::

“Damn it, Mulder,” she cursed, then hit send.

She flipped open the manila envelope with Mulder’s notes,

and found Dr. Jonathan Yin’s office phone number. She

waited for several rings before a heavily accented voice

answered.

“Hello?”

“Dr. Yin? This is Agent Dana Scully.”

“Miss Scully! How wonderful of you to call! How is your

investigation going?”

“That’s what I called to ask you about, Dr. Yin. I’m not sure

I’m entirely convinced of the validity of Lili’s case.”

“Oh. That is unfortunate.” He sounded very quiet, saddened

by the news.

“I think I need some more information. I need to understand

more about this Feng Shui. My partner seems to have gone

off on a theory and left me somewhat in the dark. I need

some help.”

“Oh, are you alone? You two would usually work so well

together.”

“Yes, but…” Scully stopped in mid-sentence. “You only met

us today, Dr. Yin. How could you know how we work

together?”

“It is written in the book of I’Ching.”

Scully shook her head. “I don’t need my fortune told right

now.”

“Ha, ha! Where did you hear that?”

“From Hannah. I’m leaning toward her side of the case–

unless you can convince me otherwise.” God, she couldn’t

believe she was doing this. Why, Mulder, why?

“Why don’t you come down to my office, Agent Scully? I can

clarify things for you about my profession, and I can provide

you with some reference books.”

Finally, some sensibility! “That would be very helpful. Thank

you. I’ll have to take a cab.”

“I await your arrival.”

“Uh, one last thing. Will Lili be there? I would appreciate it if

she weren’t. I’d like to keep this meeting as unbiased as

possible.”

“As you wish. Lili will be leaving at eight as usual. I will not

alert her to your visit.”

“Thank you. I’ll see you shortly.”

She hung up the phone, then called the front desk for cab

service.

***

When she arrived, the store was dimly lit. She thought for a

moment that Dr. Yin had forgotten and left, until she saw him

crouched on a short stool by the register reading a joke book.

She tapped on the glass door and he leapt to answer it for her.

“Welcome, Agent Scully,” he exclaimed, his enthusiasm not

an ounce less than when they had first met. She followed him

to his office where she took the same seat that she had earlier

in the day.

She adjusted herself several times, fidgeting with her jacket

or pushing her hair behind one ear. All of a sudden, Scully

didn’t know what her purpose was in visiting the doctor. It

felt as if wads of cotton grew inside her throat, and prevented

her from uttering a single sentence. She made a small

grunting noise to test her vocal chords. They were still intact.

“I…” Her voice was more than willing to make sounds for

her, yet the thoughts were still not gathering. I may as well be

honest, she thought. “I really don’t know where to begin, Dr.

Yin. I don’t understand any of what you and Lili claim.”

Yin folded his hands and pressed his index fingers to his lips.

It seemed to be a subconscious reaction while he was in deep

thought. His narrow eyes twinkled with something

mysterious, something that made Scully shiver right between

her shoulder blades. It wasn’t quite creepy, but she felt

somewhat exposed. She looked away from him.

“It is a shame. Agent Mulder believes so strongly…”

She shot her glance back to Yin’s face. “I didn’t mean to say

that I don’t want to understand…”

Yin blinked once, causing Scully’s voice to trail off. “It is

only too bad that he went off on his own.”

“Yes, I suppose?”

“You need each other. You have gotten through many

difficult cases before, but only together.”

She heard a subtle throbbing, like waves crashing against her

eardrums — she was beginning to panic. It was as if she were

in some sort of trance, not because there were puffs of

incense smoke hovering about the room — there weren’t any–

nor because Yin had waved his hands in a funny manner

before her eyes. It was that exposed feeling again, as if he

had opened her up and began fishing through her darkened,

suppressed little memory files. “How do you know this?”

“It’s written right here.” He placed his hand gently on the

large, red leather book with ribbons marking the pages. It sat

on his desk like an entity unto itself. He giggled softly,

awakening her from her trance. Despite herself, she felt the

skin of her cheeks becoming quite warm. Yin graciously

ignored it.

“The translation might be slightly different in English, but it

simply describes your nature. I’ll read you an excerpt that I

translated earlier.”

Scully raised an eyebrow.

“Lili had me check,” he said in response to her silent

question. “She believes in her methods, and mine, but she

needed to be sure Hannah would realize her danger from

someone *Hannah* could believe. Mulder was the ideal

candidate, since he has a history of researching the

unexplained and such, but he is also a government official —

someone Hannah could trust.”

“I’m not sure Mulder would be the most obvious choice, now

that we’ve met with Hannah,” Scully admitted.

“Oh, no. I realized that right away. It is quite obvious that no

matter how lucky Agent Fox Mulder is, he would have gotten

nowhere without his soul mate by his side.”

Scully huffed a nervous laugh. “I’m not…”

“Please, just listen.”

Resignedly, she sighed, “All right.”

“I will say first, I found it interesting when analyzing your

names, that you and Agent Mulder shared a common path.

You two are so closely bound together, you don’t know

where one life ends and the other begins. Here, let me read

you something I found in the book.”

He unfolded the large book near to the front and found in the

pages a few small scraps of white paper, stuck exactly where

he had left them. It was like he had discovered some old

photos long forgotten and his lips quirked upward as he

admired them and rubbed the corners of the sheets with his

thumb.

He adjusted his glasses and began to read, “‘It is the way of

the Earth…’ — that is you and Mulder. You both share the

Earth sign — ‘…to provide a path, complete with twists and

turns, forks, obstacles, and diversions, through even the

wilderness. So, too, your path takes you continually forward,

continuously onward down the road–beyond the last fork–

beyond the next bend. The path you are on is endless and

eternal–marked by turning points, and fraught with choices.

Yet nothing stands in your way for long. There is nothing

you cannot get over. There is nothing you cannot get around.

There is nothing you cannot get through. And so, your

progress is assured.”

“How does that ‘assure’ that Mulder could not have gotten

this case done without me?”

“Because you are his path. Where this reading only works

half-way with Mulder, you have the Earth in you through and

through. It is quite unfortunate that Agent Mulder does not

allow people to refer to him by his first name. His nature is

most influenced by how he is known. If more people called

him Fox, there’s no telling how his luck might change– for

the better.” Yin flipped through some more pages. “I also

found something else–as to your relationship.”

Scully once again averted her eyes.

“‘You are bound by your mutual experience and your

collective self-interest.’ Tell me, Agent Scully, has your work

with Agent Mulder led you to your present romantic

relationship with him?”

A somewhat recent memory crept into the back of her mind.

A visit with a woman who enlightened her to the possibility

that all the things she experienced in her life were meant to

lead her to one moment in time. She had begun to merely

scratch the surface of this logic, to find a new way of viewing

herself and what she wanted. It was a mystical experience for

her then; something she didn’t quite understand or want to

acknowledge until she was able to speak to Mulder about it.

Slowly, she became aware that Dr. Yin was waiting for her

response.

“I… Is this pertinent to the case, Dr. Yin?” Scully quickly

swiped her eye with the back of her hand, catching some

wetness that had inexplicably begun to gather.

“No matter how much you try to avoid the subject, Dana, it

was meant to be between the two of you. You have a purpose

together.”

“The readings are all very general, Dr. Yin.”

“But is it accurate?”

She paused. What could she say? Did she dare admit

anything to this man? How much did he know about them?

Or was this his way of convincing her that these theories

were real — that they did work, and Hannah truly was in

danger because of them. Finally, she concluded, “If

interpreted the right way, they could be.”

“Mmm.” Yin closed the book and pinched the end of his

chin. “You see, Agent Scully, I had hoped to show you

through your reading, that the Book of Changes can be

accurate. I had hoped that, if you could identify with

something in these mysteries we are putting our faith in, your

understanding of our situation might come more easily.”

She was hating this immensely, having this man tell her what

her life was. But at the same time, she was uncontrollably

intrigued. He had not merely made these things up. He could

not have pulled these readings out of the sky. They were

written thousands of years ago somewhere in China. Was

destiny so strong as to predetermine someone’s life so far into

the future? Was one’s path set in stone? Couldn’t it be

changed?

Clearing her throat, Scully tentatively asked, “My, uh,

reading in particular speaks of a path in life. I suppose

Hannah has strayed from such a path?”

“The ‘path’ is whatever situation you come across. It is not

necessarily defined as one’s destiny, but how one will

approach a problem or activity or occurrence. You will

approach a situation and keep working at it and working at it

until it makes perfect sense to you. Agent Mulder will

approach things similarly, but to a point. He will most likely

depend on his hunches because he is used to being lucky.”

“And Hannah?”

“Hannah’s path is deemed very lucky as well, although not as

much as Fox Mulder’s. You see, one can determine the

outcome of a situation, or at least the direction in which one

is going, if you use some methods of chance. The book of

I’Ching isn’t called the Book of Changes for nothing.

“Every time I have posed the question of Hannah’s fate, I get

the same reading, which is very unusual, since it is always

done randomly.”

“How do you get your readings?”

Yin reached into his pocket and pulled out three shiny

pennies, and sprinkled them onto the desk before her.

“That’s it? How?”

“Each aspect is represented by a trigram symbol, made up of

three lines. Each toss of the coins can determine if any of the

lines are changing.” Scully knitted her eyebrows in

confusion. “It may be a bit much for you to understand right

now. I will give you a book to take with you, so that you may

learn at your own pace. For now, I will tell you that I have

always come to this reading for Hannah…”

He flipped quickly through the book, to a page marked by a

faded orange ribbon. “‘The path you are on grows suddenly

cloudy, and the way indiscernible, as a thick fog rolls into

your life. This situation envelopes you, clouds your senses

and interferes with your perspective.'”

He leaned his forearms over the pages and spoke in an

extremely serious tone of voice, “I have reason to believe,

Agent Scully, that Henry has clouded Hannah’s mind with

lies, so that she has become unaware of his intentions. Yes,

our claims are difficult to prove. We need someone with an

open mind to help us. Everything has come to a head, a

crossroads, so to speak. I can certainly feel the tension

building in the atmosphere. Something will happen. Only

how it comes to be depends on who gets involved.”

Comfort Inn

11:23 p.m.

Room 8

He tapped shave-and-a-haircut against the number eight of

Scully’s door. He didn’t care how corny it was, Mulder was

elated. He couldn’t wait to tell Scully his theory.

As she opened the door, Mulder sailed past her, waving his

arms slowly about him, his hands making a flat chopping

motion through the air.

“Hooooooooh-waaaaaaaahhh…” he wailed out.

Scully closed and leaned against the door. She glanced at her

watch. “Where’ve you been? I thought the library closed at

nine?”

He walked quickly toward her, fluid in his motions, like he

was floating on air. He crouched slightly so that his eyes

were level with hers and then adjusted his hands so that he

was looking at his partner through a box-shaped space

between them.

“I’ve got a way to convince you that this case is worth it,

Scully,” he whispered. Then, suddenly, he whipped around

and jumped up onto her bed, and began flailing his judo-

karate-tae-kwon-whatever moves again. It wasn’t until he

heard the crunching and rustling of paper beneath his feet

that he realized he had completely disturbed Scully in the

midst of a research session.

“Hey, what’s all this?” He stood up quickly in surprise and

smacked his head against the ceiling. “Ow!” He rubbed his

head and climbed down to sit on the edge of the bed. “Guess

I gotta cut down on the milk.”

“I don’t think you could get any taller,” she said, as she

hurried over to examine his head. “And I’m sure it’s been a

while since anyone referred to you as a ‘growing boy.'”

“Ah, don’t remind me.” He picked up one of the books from

the crumpled mess strewn across Scully’s bed: “The

Complete Guide to Feng Shui.” Then he looked down at the

rest of the pile: “The Portable Dragon – A Western Man’s

Guide to I’Ching,” and several other articles and booklets

with the same theme.

He beamed at her. “Scully! Does this mean I’m pardoned?” A

warm fuzzy feeling began to expand in his chest, not only

because she was giving the case a chance, but more because

he had caught her in the act.

“Not quite, Mulder. However, I don’t think you’re going to

tell me anything more convincing than what I’ve already

learned today.”

Mulder dropped his head in disappointment. The fuzziness

seemed to crystallize and shatter inside his chest. He shied

away from his partner’s fingers trying to wind their way

around his forearm, but she caught it anyway.

“No, Mulder. I mean, I’m willing to try.”

“What have you found?” Excitement and confusion were

spinning like a hurricane in his head. He watched her pale

cheeks gain color, but just as quickly fade as she did one

of her famous half-second composure checks.

“Uh, let’s talk about that a little later. I want to know

what your groundbreaking discovery is.”

“You know Bruce Lee?”

“You mean…” she mimicked his previous crazed movements,

only more subtly and still sitting.

“Yeah, the Kung-Fu guy. You know, he died at the height of

his career.”

“Although I’m not a B-movie buff like yourself, yes, I do

know that he died young.”

“Well, there’s a theory, or more like a legend, that his death

was Feng-Shui related.”

Scully wiped at her face. “Go on,” she said sleepily, and

moved some papers to lie on her side while Mulder told his

bed-time story.

“From what I found today, it seems that Bruce Lee, or ‘Siau-

Loong’ got a little cocky in his fame. When he had gathered

some wealth he, like most of us probably would, decided to

buy himself a house. Only thing is, he bought it in a town

called Kowloon, better known to the Chinese as the place of

the nine dragons.”

“So what?”

“So, his name, Siau-Loong, means ‘little dragon.’ What the

Chinese believed is that if he decided to live in that town, he

would anger his elder spirits. To avoid any problems, he

placed a Ba-Gua medallion — just like the one Lili tried to

use — above his front door. This worked for a while, but one

night a typhoon hit the town and the medallion was knocked

off and broken, leaving Lee’s house open to attack by the

dragon spirits. He died soon afterward.”

“And this story is supposed to convince me?”

Mulder’s jaw dropped into his lap. “Scully, can’t you see the

parallels? This event can be directly related to our case!

Listen, Scully, what if Henry found some way of harnessing

bad energy like Lili said? And what if he were able to direct

it in a Poison Arrow, like Dr. Yin was describing, so strongly

that it was powerful enough to shatter Lili’s Ba-Gua?”

“And how would that harm Hannah? Sounds like a

destructive temper-tantrum to me. If he wants to break stuff,

he should make some more vases. Those obviously break

well for him,” she said, referring to the mess in Henry’s

studio.

“I don’t think Henry knows what he’s harnessed, Scully. I

think you’re right. This started out as a ‘temper-tantrum,’ as a

jealous reaction against a girlfriend he couldn’t have. I think

in breaking that Ba-Gua he opened up a path for all the evil,

all the hate he was feeling, to channel itself even more

powerfully against Hannah. My guess is, he doesn’t even

know the current hardships Hannah has been through in the

past week. All he knows is that she’s hanging around more,

which is all he wanted in the first place.”

Scully rolled from her side and onto her back. She pulled her

fingers through her thick red hair and yawned.

“You’re still not getting it,” Mulder pouted softly. He got up,

peeled his jacket off and threw it over the back of a chair. He

kept his back to her, unable to face the stubbornness she

persisted in holding against him. He heard papers shuffling as

she sat up on the bed.

“On the contrary, Mulder, I think I do ‘get it.'”

He turned to face her, so utterly confused it was beginning to

hurt his head. “Well, hopefully you can clue me in, Scully,

because I just don’t get it. One minute you’re adamantly

refusing to believe in this stuff, and the next… what? Now

you’re agreeing with me?” He threw himself into the chair,

and crossed his arms. “Okay, it’s your turn now. What have

you got that I ain’t got?”

“If what you’re saying is right, that Henry has opened up a

way for Shar Chi to invade Hannah’s domain more easily,

then I think there might actually be some logic in all the bad

luck that’s been happening to her.”

“All right…”

“I met with Dr. Yin this evening. He gave me some books

and reference materials that explained a little more about

Feng Shui. I found out that spirits, any kind of spirits, will

travel in straight lines. That’s why Yin mentioned the central

long hallway in Hannah’s house being a bad thing; there is

easy access for bad energy, and it will disrupt a household.

When Hannah experienced complications with the baby, she

was sitting in the hallway.”

“But normally the Ba-Gua would have deterred an outside

influence. At least, that’s what I’ve gathered. So the bad

influence must have come from outside somewhere,” Mulder

added, excited now that the pieces were coming together. He

stared at the door to Scully’s room intently, trying to visualize

the outside view of Hannah’s front door.

“There’s something else I didn’t tell you, Mulder.”

“What’s that?”

“When we were in Henry’s apartment, I noticed a small hole

in his windowpane.”

Mulder sat silently, trying to follow where Scully was

leading him.

“Henry’s window has a direct view onto Hannah’s house. He

has a clear view into her front door, or more accurately–a

clear shot.”

“You think he did a Lee Harvey? But a gunshot couldn’t

leave a small hole in glass at such a close range. It would

have shattered it or at least left cracks.”

“But we’re not talking guns, are we Mulder?” She stilled

herself and took a deep breath. Her cheeks paled noticeably.

“I also noticed a sharp instrument stuck into the clay pot

sitting on Henry’s pottery wheel – like it was stabbed at. I

was thinking, if one were to line up the angle of the tool with

a straight line, it would have been directed perfectly toward

that hole in the window. and then straight into Hannah’s

front door. If we had a source for a Poison Arrow, Mulder,

that would certainly be one.”

“So you *do* think it’s Henry. And you do think this is Feng-

Shui related.”

“I’m still not sure how Henry could have the power to control

such passive energies to his benefit, but… According to the

information I’ve gathered today, I’d have to say yes.”

“Then we have a case!”

“Then, Mulder, we don’t have evidence for our case. The

evidence we have can be discounted very easily. Who is

going to believe that a mystical Poison Arrow is Henry’s

weapon of choice?”

“So what’s our next step, Watson?”

“We’ve got to convince Hannah.”

ACT 4

125 Columbia Rd.

Upstairs bedroom

3:14 a.m.

Simon’s body rolled over next to her for what seemed like the

thousandth time that night. He had not liked the news that the

FBI had come to visit her that afternoon, and it was affecting

his sleep patterns. Hannah sighed to herself as she stared at

the long shadows stretching across the ceiling of the

bedroom. When Simon didn’t sleep well, she didn’t sleep at

all.

Her husband’s heavy weight bounced the mattress as he

turned over again, sending waves of springs undulating to her

side of the bed. Hannah had to get up. It was no use staying

here when she couldn’t sleep. Besides, she was supposed to

be resting in a ‘calm’ environment.

She felt her way to the bathroom down the hall. She poured

herself a paper cup full of water and drank it to the light of a

plug-in night light next to the mirror. She thought about

where she might be able to sleep. The guest room they had

here on the second floor only had a dismantled bed and a

mattress propped up against the wall. Maybe she could flop

the mattress onto the floor. Or would that be too much

activity for her in this delicate state? Perhaps she could just

wait until Simon settled down.

She hated feeling helpless, but she wanted this baby even

more. Everything seemed to be working out for her and

Simon lately. Well, all up until last week. They’d finally

saved enough to buy this house. And after trying for so long,

they were pregnant. She couldn’t wait to see her new baby in

two months. Maybe even earlier than that if it were

premature… She shook her head. No. She didn’t want to think

about such things.

Hannah crumpled up the paper cup and threw it into the

wastebasket. She tiptoed back to the bedroom to check on

Simon. When she peeked around the corner of the doorway,

she saw her husband sitting up and bent over, clutching his

head.

“Simon? Are you okay, honey?”

He grumbled and rubbed his temples. “Damn headache. I just

got it. Must be why I can’t get to sleep.”

“Maybe it’s too stuffy in here? It was pretty warm today, and

you’re probably not used to it after such a cold winter. Let me

open the window a little.”

“Mmm. Yeah, that might help. Thanks.”

Hannah shuffled over to the window, pulled up the shade,

and opened the window about half-way. Outside, she could

hear a banging sound, like someone was hammering

something with a wooden mallet. It sounded far away, but it

was still strange, as it was nearly 3:30 in the morning.

“Why don’t you lie back, Simon, and I’ll get you some

aspirin.”

He followed her instructions and lay down, still holding his

head, breathing heavily in a pattern like they did in their

Lamaze classes.

As she started to move across the room she began to feel a

little light-headed herself. Weird. She must have been having

sympathy pains or something.

Before she could take another step, the shade behind her

flipped up suddenly and whapped against the top of the

window. Hannah jumped at the sound. Simon got up to fix it,

but didn’t get very far. He dropped to his knees almost as

soon as he stood up.

“Simon!” Hannah shuffled as quickly as she could to her

husband’s side. The sound of the banging outside became

louder, but Hannah accounted it to her heightened senses

during her panic and dismissed it quickly.

“This is bad, Hannah. I’ve never had a headache so bad in my

life.” He leaned his elbows on the mattress. It looked like he

was saying his bed-time prayers. He bobbed his head slightly

with the throbs of pain. It was so strange. He nodded and whimpered

in a rhythm, almost as if he were following a beat, to the drumming

in a rock song– or to the rhythm of that hammering outside. It got

faster as Simon’s pain became greater.

All of a sudden Simon started to shake. He could barely keep

himself up on his knees anymore. He huffed and grunted, and

it was horrible to watch his contorted face. Hannah was

helpless to do anything. She didn’t know what to do. What

could she do?

Then Simon collapsed to the floor. He didn’t move. Hannah

shook his shoulder. He didn’t respond. She held her finger

close to his nose. He was still breathing, but he was

obviously unconscious. She had to get help.

She got up quickly to call an ambulance — a little too quickly,

for the room began to wobble around her; another dizzy spell.

She grabbed onto the bedpost for balance. As she stood there trying

to gather herself, she began to feel a throbbing in her own head.

Waves of dizziness made her sick to her stomach.

Hannah couldn’t wait any longer. She had to help Simon. She

forced herself to walk around the bed to reach the phone on

the opposite bedside table. However in doing so, she smashed

her foot into the wooden bedpost that had so recently been a

crutch for her. She cried out, tears springing up to pinch her

eyes.

She held onto the bed, trying to catch her breath, trying to

breathe away the pain. The waves of dizziness subsided, but

she became aware of something from the corner of her eye.

A harsh light illuminated a window in the apartment building

across the street, as if it were from a bare bulb, blueish-white

and cold. Upon closer inspection, she realized that the

window belonged to Henry’s apartment. ‘He’s up late,’ she

thought curiously.

Then she noticed he was working on something. In one

sickening moment, she realized that he was hammering a

large piece of metal. The shine of its surface flashed every

time he hit it. Every time he hit it, she heard the ping of the

hammer. It was like a shout to her, a sound that jabbed at her

brain. She looked down at her fallen husband, then back at

Henry; she lifted her hand to steady herself, the dizziness still

coming in waves, then back at Henry.

“It can’t be,” she whispered in disbelief. She struggled to

attempt at least a limp toward the telephone, but she stumbled

over her own two feet. Her hands smacked the floor hard as

she fell, trying not to land on her stomach. This was a

nightmare! She couldn’t get anywhere this way — not if

Henry was, dare she say it, tripping her up with bad luck

every step she took.

Her gaze darted around the room frantically, looking for

something to protect herself and Simon from this onslaught.

For the first time, Hannah noticed just how cluttered and

unfinished the bedroom, like the rest of the house, was. How

could she have let things slide so much?

She did, however, have her dressing table set with all her

things. A large mirror was attached to the top of the dresser,

but there was no way she could move that heavy thing

herself. A mirror would deflect Henry’s attack, but… Then

she saw, among her make-up, a small bottle of perfume, half

full, but the glass of the bottle had many facets, like a crystal.

It might work.

She crawled over to the dresser, which was out of view of the

window, and grabbed the small bottle. She hoped, since a

crystal would usually refract light and good Chi into a house,

that it would at least split up the Shar Chi Henry was

shooting towards her, so that it was not so intense.

On her hands and knees, she crouched behind the TV set

below the window sill. She timidly placed the bottle on top of

it, between the rabbit-ears antenna. The hammering

continued.

“Damn it. I knew this wouldn’t…” she cursed, but stopped in

mid-sentence when the sound of the hammering changed. It

became a thunking sound. It wasn’t nearly as loud as before,

and it was staggered.

Hannah saw her chance, and flew for the phone. Her fingers

worked at the buttons of their own accord, and she was

almost surprised when the paramedics answered so quickly.

“125 Columbia Road. My husband’s had a stroke. Please

hurry!”

She hung up, and sat on the floor next to the table. She could

still see Henry fussing about his sculpture. Why was he doing

this? Did he know that he was? She had trusted him for so

long. They grew up together, for heaven’s sake! Her mother

had tried to warn her so many times, but she never listened.

She had to find out the truth now.

She dialed the phone once more. “Ma, please come over.

Simon’s been…” she peeked under the bed and saw her

husband’s dark profile slumped on the floor. “…he’s been

hurt. I need you here, Ma. I’m so sorry. You were right.”

She hung up. She stood and looked out to the bright rectangle

of light outside. Henry stood, framed in the window, with a

terrified look on his face. As much as she could manage,

Hannah stomped downstairs, her destination one that had

been a long time coming. She only wished she had realized it

needed to be made much sooner.

*****

“Henry!” He watched Hannah walk slowly, so slowly down

her front steps. “Henry! You get out here!”

What was wrong with her? He had seen Simon fall; he’d been

happy about that — the clumsy fool. It wasn’t until his

hammer began pounding in directions he never intended, that

he realized something was going on.

After this afternoon, he had been certain Lili brought in the

Feds to check up on him. When he awoke from his nap, the

anger still lingered. His hands felt itchy to do something. He

needed to release his frustrations. It was such an opportunity

to tackle his big metal sculpture.

He torched it, he pounded it, threw all his strength and hatred

into the huge object. He molded it until it was as sharp and

angular as his emotions. It cut into the air with its shapes like

knives and sickles. When it became too hot and stuffy in the

studio, he opened his window. That’s when he noticed that

beyond, in the darkness, Hannah’s and Simon’s bedroom

window was closed off from him, the shades drawn so that he

could not see inside.

It made him angry. He pounded his sculpture vehemently,

directing the sharpest points of the sculpture toward the

darkened bedroom. The arms of the metal beast shuddered

and flashed a reflection of his angry, tortured face every time

he hit it. Downstairs and upstairs neighbors shouted through

the walls, but he didn’t care. Hannah could not keep him out.

She would know that he needed her. She wouldn’t need

Simon as long as she had him. Simon had to go.

Now Hannah was coming to him. She finally reached street

level. He ran down to meet her, excited that he had finally

gotten Hannah alone to explain himself, but terrified that she

would reject him even after all his trouble. He couldn’t back

down now. He had to see her, hold her, tell her everything

was going to be all right now. She would never have to suffer

from bad luck again as long as Simon was finally out of the

way.

He swung open the entrance door to his building and met her

in the middle of the barren street. But in the moonlight,

instead of the warm, loving expression on her face he had

always expected, her features were drawn, sad, and most of

all, her eyes were on fire with rage.

“Henry, what’s all this about? What are you doing to us?”

To us? This was preposterous. “Hannah, my darling, what do

you mean?”

“Darling?! Henry what’s wrong with you? Don’t you know

what you’ve done to Simon?”

She was so angry, she threw a punch at him, but he caught

her arm before she made contact. “What’s wrong with you,

Hannah? Can’t you see how terrible your life has been with

Simon? You’ve suffered nothing but trouble since you moved

into this house, since you married that stuck-up stiff!”

“Henry, let go of me,” she begged, and clutched at her

stomach. “Henry, you can’t do this to me! Let go! My baby…

you’re going to make me lose it this time!”

Henry released her, but too harshly. She fell onto her

backside scraping her elbows in the process. “This time?” he

whispered.

“She said it was you that day. I didn’t believe her. I almost

lost this baby last week, Henry. Did you even bother to find

out why I’d been staying home all of a sudden? How could

you jeopardize my family for your own benefit? I can see it

all now! You never let me fulfill my own decisions! The only

reason I even got to marry Simon was because YOU weren’t

in the way!”

“But Hannah…”

“No, Henry. You CAN’T have me. I don’t WANT you.” The

words hit him hard, like pummeling dodge-balls to his face,

only he couldn’t dodge them this time.

The faint sound of sirens whined from a few streets away.

Hannah sat on the concrete, nursing her scraped elbows,

dabbing the blood with her nightgown. Henry stared at her

helplessly.

“You called the cops on me?”

Hannah scowled, but didn’t give her friend the grace of eye

contact. “That’s the paramedics for Simon. You forced him

into a stroke with your stinking Shar Chi.”

Henry stared down at his own hands, pink even in the

moonlight from the furious work he’d accomplished that

night. A large vehicle flashing red and white lights came

driving down the street at an insane pace, and screeched to a

stop not eight feet from where he stood in the center. He

could feel the heat of the engine and smell the diesel fumes

like a breath of doom.

A stocky man in white came rushing over to her. “Ma’am?”

He crouched down next to Hannah. “My God, it’s you

again?” He shot a look toward Henry, disgust creasing his

mouth into a deep frown. Then he busied himself again with

Hannah. “Don’t worry, we’ll take care of you.”

“My husband. He’s upstairs. He needs help more than I do.

You have to get him to the hospital!”

“All right,” the man assured her, and waved two other

workers toward the house to see about Simon.

Another car pulled up to the scene. Mulder, Scully and Lili

emerged and ran toward the three in the center of the street.

Lili was immediately at her daughter’s side, crying at the

sight of her scarred and humiliated child. She removed her

sweater and draped it over Hannah’s shoulders despite the

arguments of the paramedic.

Mulder carefully approached Henry, who had no plans of

running anywhere. It was over. He just didn’t have a reason

to deny himself the punishment he deserved. Obviously, he

was not meant to be Hannah’s guiding light as he had

thought. He would never find anyone like her again, and now

he knew he’d cut himself off from her completely. She would

never trust him–ever.

White Plains Hospital

8:00 a.m.

Saturday Morning

He sat in a row of blue plastic seats and watched her gently

close the door at the far end of the hall. She walked toward

him, her heels clicking down another sterile, glossy linoleum

floor, like she had done so many times before. Once again, he

was in awe of her.

“I have to hand it to you, Scully. You were right this time.”

She closed the distance between them and stood in front of

him. “We were both right, Mulder. We figured this one out

together.”

It was an alien thing to him, this compromise with Scully. He

was so used to being challenged by her. He was still unsure

why he even fathomed the thought of her accepting his

theories earlier. Perhaps he had always kept himself separate

from her, even in their new relationship, because he feared

what that compromise would do to them. He realized now

that it only made them better.

“How’s Hannah?” he asked her.

“She’s fine. The baby’s fine, and Simon regained

consciousness about an hour ago. Both OB and neurology

want to keep them the rest of the day for observation.”

She sat down next to him, slumping in the chair so that her

head could lean against the wall behind her. “What about

Henry?” she asked, at the tail-end of a yawn, so that her voice

sounded high and squeaky.

“The police are not detaining him because of the ‘minor’ first-

time offense.”

“What?” She sat up ramrod straight. “This is prolonged

harassment, Mulder! How could they…?”

Mulder scratched his head and threw his hands out before

him. “Evidence. Not everyone is as open-minded as we are.

And remember, they’ve heard this before. They’re not ready

to re-think a decision that’s already been discounted.”

“As usual.” She sat back again, but this time she rested her

head on his shoulder. “They’re letting him go home?”

“Under observation until this is brought to court.”

“I should have expected nothing less,” a voice came from

beside them. Both agents stood quickly, embarrassed to be

caught in an unofficially casual position. Lili gazed at them,

her face drawn with the creases of age and fatigue. “You did

well, but not enough I suppose.”

Mulder, although he was a good two feet taller than the old

Chinese woman, felt smaller than a mouse, scurrying to sniff

at her feet. She had idolized him, put her trust in him. He felt

like he had failed her.

“Lili, your daughter and son-in-law will be quite safe. He will

be under observation to be sure he doesn’t do anything

again.”

“Have you learned nothing, Agent Fox Mulder?” She studied

his hand resting on his partner’s shoulder. “I should have had

this taken care of long ago. But I do thank you for bringing

my daughter back to me. We have a new–understanding.”

“We will be sure to give you any statements you require

when you bring Henry to court. We are still willing to help

you. Our work isn’t quite finished.”

“Neither is mine,” she whispered as she turned down the hall

to leave them.

She disappeared into the crowd of pastel-colored uniforms

filling the hallway by the nurse’s station, and her path was

soon covered by the padding of white sneakered feet.

Both Mulder and Scully were left feeling hollow in a

suddenly congested atmosphere, but were powerless to free

themselves from it. It seemed Lili needed an answer, but was

unlikely to get it in a world that swallowed beliefs like hers,

only to conveniently forget as soon as they had been

ingested. They could relate, they could understand, but they

could not fix it, and they hated it.

“Well, we can probably still catch a flight back to D.C. today

if you want to get back for that seminar, Scully.”

“It can be rescheduled. I think I need the rest of this weekend

to slow down a little, finish things up before starting

something new.”

“You sure? I know you were looking forward to it.”

“Yeah. I’m sure of it,” she concluded, and took his hand

gently into hers.

EPILOGUE

Henry was escorted to his apartment by a big burly officer

dressed in undercover civilian clothing, but he was not

unnoticed. As he walked to his front door, he heard several

other doors creaking open, or the scratch of metal peep-hole

covers being lifted in his wake.

When he was finally left alone in his studio, he observed the

chaos he’d left behind. Everything was scattered, damaged,

painful to look at. He rubbed his pink, irritated wrists as he

stepped around the room. Everything in the room was

completely disordered, all except his finished masterpiece.

The large metal object stood in the center of the room, as if it

had used its sharp edges and sickle-like arms to slash at his

whole life. The broken remains of his spirit crunched beneath

his feet. The wooden mallet, his instrument of creation, still

lay at the foot of the beast. How could he have created

something so angry looking?

As he viewed his work, the taste of bile filled his mouth. He

spat at the metal object, and kicked it over. It fell like a heavy

body, but landed awkwardly, its spikyness preventing it from

collapsing completely to the floor.

Behind him, he found his forgotten pottery wheel. It had

always given him so much joy, relaxation, peace. The solid,

curving objects he created were always pleasing to him. He

dragged his fingertips over the rough, dirty surface.

Outside, the small white house lay in shadow. All the rooms

were dark and empty. He’d probably never be allowed to see

life pass through them again–at least, not the life he could

ever share. It would always be hers, and hers with her

husband. She’d be able to live it now, without him getting in

the way.

He was about to start cleaning up the mess, when he noticed

a tiny sparkle of light coming from Hannah’s bedroom

window. She wasn’t supposed to be home yet, was she?

He decided to ignore it, and made his way toward the kitchen

to get a broom. He automatically walked his normal path, a

subconscious way he moved through the space due to

everyday habits. Suddenly, his foot became snagged on

something that would not normally have been left on the

floor.

The wooden mallet tangled up his ankles, and before he

could do anything to stop himself, he lost his balance and

tripped. His scream was cut off quickly as he landed.

The sharp edges of his sculpture gleamed with a spot of

reflected light from outside. As it passed over one of the

longer arms of the metal sculpture, it caught a stain of red,

then scurried away, as if fleeing the scene of the crime.

Downstairs, across the street, an old Chinese woman opened

the front door to her daughter’s house and hung a small

medallion in the entrance. She adjusted the red silk strings so

that they hung neatly from the bottom of the piece. She

smiled at it, then closed the door behind her.

*****

Author’s notes:

I don’t claim to know everything about Feng Shui or I’Ching.

This story uses a few elements very loosely in order to tell a

tale. I highly suggest going out and reading up on the

subjects if you found them interesting.

These are the reference books I used while writing Poison

Arrow:

“The Complete Illustrated Guide to Feng Shui” by Lilian Too

Element Books Limited 1996, Copyright Lilian Too 1996

“I’Ching in Ten Minutes” by R.T. Kaser

Avon Books, Copyright 1994 by Richard T. Kaser

“The Portable Dragon – The Western Man’s Guide to

I’Ching” by RGH Sui

Title: Seeing is Believing

Author: L.A. Ward

Rating: PG

Keywords: Case file, MSR

Spoilers: None

Notes: Written for IMTP VS9

Archive: Two weeks exclusively on IMTP site.

X X X

TEASER

Miz Myree’s Bar-B-Q

Birmingham, Alabama

11:12am CST

The vinyl had a thin brown film on it that

Jimmy Reardon couldn’t identify, but it made his

shoes stick to the floor. He shuffled his feet a

little, then stepped to the left, hoping to find a

clean spot that didn’t stick. As he impatiently

waited for his number to be called, Jimmy glanced

over his shoulder to look out the window then back

to woman standing behind the register. Would the

cow just hurry up? This was taking forever and he

didn’t have time to waste.

She handed some redneck his change and closed the

cash register.

Finally! Jimmy thought as he moved one step closer

to the counter.

His partner, Mark Hoyte, jabbed him in the shoulder.

“Gotta go,” he said.

Jimmy looked at Hoyte in disbelief. “Go? We still

haven’t gotten our food.”

Hoyte grabbed Jimmy’s elbow with one hand and pointed

to the large plate glass window with the other. In

the blinding sunlight beyond the glass, Jimmy saw a

white car with yellow and green writing that said

“Shelby County Sheriff.”

Swallowing a golf ball sized lump in his throat,

Jimmy agreed. “Gotta go.” Then–wouldn’t you know

it–the cow called his order.

Hoyte shook his head. “No way.”

“It’s Miz Myree’s pie,” Jimmy protested as he ran

to the counter, grabbing the plain white bag holding

slices of chocolate pie in small Styrofoam boxes.

Hoyte made a disgusted sound as he lunged for the

back door. As he flung it open the hinges gave a

pained creak, and Hoyte and Jimmy found themselves

face to face with a deputy aiming a pistol at them.

From out of nowhere, Hote produced a gun of his own

and shot the deputy in the face. Miz Myree’s patrons

started screaming, and Jimmy stood transfixed.

Nausea rolled through Jimmy. Sick and shaken he

stepped over the body lying at his feet as Hoyte

dragged him out the door.

“Get a move on if you don’t wanna end up just like

him,” Hoyte growled. Without looking back, Hoyte ran

to the stolen red pickup, leaving Jimmy to realize if

he didn’t follow he’d take the fall for the sheriff’s

murder.

Still clutching the paper bag filled with pie,

Jimmy jumped over the bloody goo on the sidewalk.

Brains, he thought. It’s the poor bastard’s brains.

It was a disturbing thought.

The red pickup roared to life. Dammit, if he wasn’t

careful Hoyte would leave him here. Jimmy dove into

the flat bed of the truck just as Hoyte slammed the

car into gear and hit the accelerator to speed out of

the parking lot.

Sirens wailed behind them as Hoyte turned the corner

to Cahaba River Road. With a sudden burst of speed,

the old truck careened down the pothole-ridden

street, causing Jimmy to lose his grip on the bag. He

made a grab for the Styrofoam boxes, but they slid

into the back of the cab with a splat. Chocolate and

thick, white whipping cream made a Rorschach pattern

against the dirty red paint before rolling into a

heartbreaking puddle on the floor.

“Asshole,” Jimmy shouted at Hoyte through the open

cab window. “You’re gonna get us killed *and* you

ruined my pie!”

“Get over it,” Hoyte snapped.

“Yeah well–” Jimmy’s eyes widened when he saw the

crowded intersection looming ahead. “What the

hell are you doin’?”

“What’s it look like? It’s a car chase.”

“Chase,” Jimmy screeched. “As in movin’, as in

actual, forward motion. That’s Highway 280. Ain’t

nothin’ moving up there.” Jimmy saw the cops gaining

on them. “You know, instead of wrecking this piece of

crap on 280, you could just park here.” He peeked

through the cab window and windshield. “‘Cause from

where I’m sittin’, 280 at lunch and a parkin’ lot are

pretty much the same thing.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

“Sure you do. ‘Cause there’s nothin’ more helpful

when running away from the police than gettin’ stuck

in a traffic jam with a bunch of Inverness yuppies

goin’ to lunch.” Suddenly Jimmy was slung across

the bed of the truck as Hoyte made a sharp right

turn.

“Hey!” Cool stickiness seeped through Jimmy’s pants.

It was his pie.

Well this sucks, Jimmy thought.

The sirens grew louder as Jimmy clung to the side of

the truck.

“Looks like the Jefferson County Sheriff made friends

with the city police.” Then Jimmy caught sight of the

traffic light turning red. “Uh, Hoyte. . .”

Hoyte didn’t slow down.

“Hey, Hoyte!”

Hoyte hit the accelerator.

“Oh sh–”

Cars screeched to a halt, skidding and spinning as

the red pickup crossed six lanes of traffic.

Somewhere behind them Jimmy heard a crash and noticed

a Lexus careening into a Mercedes. He snickered. A

pair of rich assholes were going to be majorly

pissed.

Tires squealed as Hoyte steered the truck through the

intersection, then plummeted down the hill on the

opposite side of the highway. The Cahaba River moved

sluggishly beside the small, vestigial remnant of the

old U.S. 280 which had been replaced by the newer

six-lane version above. Jimmy noticed one sheriff’s

car had made it through the traffic snarl and was

closing in behind them.

Okay, not feeling good about this, Jimmy admitted to

himself. As escapes went, this one wasn’t.

“What in the hell are you doing *now*?!” Jimmy

demanded as Hoyte swerved off the road and onto a

dirt road that ran by the river. “Where does this

go? Hoyte?” Jimmy started pounding on the glass

of the cab. “Hoyte!”

The truck came to an abrupt halt, throwing Jummy

across the bed of the truck. Hoyte jumped out

and ran.

“What the–” The first thought to cross Jimmy’s mind

was to tackle Hoyte, drag him to the ground, and beat

the crap out of him, but then he saw the white,

yellow, and tan sheriff’s car bouncing along the red

clay road.

“I’m so screwed.” Jimmy jumped out the back of

the truck, threw open the door, and climbed into the

driver’s seat before realizing the full extent of

what Hoyte had done. “You stole the goddamned keys!”

he screamed.

Stumbling out of the truck, Jimmy made an

instantaneous decision and followed Hoyte as he

scrambled down the river embankment. Sliding on the

dirt and gravel, Jimmy found himself on his hands and

knees on a narrow shoal at the edge of the river that

more closely resembled a large creek. Hoyte was less

than ten yards ahead of him. Which was a good thing

for Hoyte, because if he wasn’t, Jimmy would be

throttling him.

“Don’t move!” a commanding voice insisted.

Jimmy looked back at a Sheriff’s deputy aiming his

gun at him.

Just like I thought, I’m screwed, Jimmy realized.

Now all he wanted was Hoyte to be screwed as well.

Jimmy looked ahead to where Hoyte was running

down the river bank and. . .

“What the hell?” The deputy looked as stunned as

Jimmy felt. Their gazes met. “Did you just see

that?” The deputy asked.

Oh yeah. Jimmy had seen it. He didn’t believe it,

but he had seen it.

The deputy blinked. “That guy just disappeared.”

ACT I

Assistant Director Skinner’s Office

J. Edgar Hoover Building

Washington, DC

12:46pm EST

Special Agent Dana Scully almost felt the moment

A.D. Skinner’s gaze left her to settle on something

directly behind her. She glanced over her shoulder

to find a dour face she hadn’t encountered in several

weeks, and could have gone several more weeks without

seeing. Just behind her stood Assistant Director

Kersh.

Kersh made made a dismissive gesture with his hand.

“Don’t let me interrupt. Please, continue.”

Scully looked to Skinner, who nodded. She resisted

the urge to lick her lip or swallow. She refused

to display discomfort. Resting her back against her

seat, Scully said calmly, “I was finished.”

She was aware of Mulder’s disbelieving glance in

her direction. “You weren’t finished,” he said

softly.

Scully arched a brow. She wasn’t? Scully didn’t say

anything. She had no desire to contradict Mulder in

front of others, but she meant what she had said.

Over the years Scully had learned she preferred the

X-Files to present a unified front to their

superiors. So often it felt like it was the two of

them against the world, but even a unified front

needed to take into account hers and Mulder’s vastly

different personalities. She shot Mulder a glance

that said she was most definitely finished.

Skinner nodded and closed the file, but Scully

could see the muscles continuing to clench in

Mulder’s jaw.

Skinner calmly interrupted the silence. “That’s

all, Agents.”

Scully saw tension in the set of Mulder’s shoulders

as he rose to stand. Out of the corner of her eye,

she saw Kersh take the seat Mulder had vacated as

she and her partner left the room.

Once in the hall, Mulder’s frustration burst to the

surface. “You weren’t finished.”

Scully dusted a non-existent speck of lint from the

sleeve of her black jacket. “In what way, was I not

finished?”

“Ankhesenamen’s mummy moved.”

“I never saw it move.”

Mulder folded his arms. “Then explain the reason the

infant mummy was found in its arms.”

“I don’t know. I don’t know who would place the

mummy fetus there, but I seriously doubt it was the

adult female mummy. Most probably it was one of the

museum workers.”

“The mummy moved.”

“The mummy could not move, Mulder. That’s

impossible.”

“An extreme possibility.”

“Impossible.”

Mulder circled her slowly. “I concede to the

unlikelihood–”

“The impossibility,” she countered.

“–the *unlikelihood* of the mummy moving, but

there’s still the questions surrounding two dead

museum workers.”

“They practically ripped the mummy to pieces trying

to steal the lapis lazuli and gold on the shroud,”

Scully protested. “They suffered massive exposure

to Aspergillus. They died of massive bacterial

infections caused by the Actinomycetes.”

“And the dead archeologist?”

“Paleopathologist.” Scully had actually felt some

solidarity with the paleopathologist, not only

because her field of work was so similar to Scully’s

own, but because. . .

Scully sighed. “Dr. Briers had a compromised immune

system. She had breast cancer and had undergone

chemotherapy. Being exposed to the mummy, she very

probably came in contact with spores from the

Aspergillus. Hypersensitive reactions to those spores

can cause symptoms identical to bacterial pneumonia,

viral pneumonia, sarcoidosis, and heart failure. She

did not die of a curse.”

Scully impatiently straightened her jacket. “I

explained everything in the case report.

“But that wasn’t everything,” Mulder insisted.

“It’s enough.”

Mulder crossed his arms and said dryly, “And

if you look over your shoulder to the right, you

should have a very nice view of the pyramids.”

Denial. In his strange way, Mulder was accusing

her of living in denial, of denying what was true

because she couldn’t allow herself to believe it.

“What more do you want?” Scully asked.

“The truth, the whole truth and nothing but–

Scully interrupted his dry drawl with a lifted hand.

“Are you asking whether I believe there was more

going on in this case than archeological larceny and

an outbreak of a rare form of bacterial pneumonia?

Then, yes. I believe that.”

Even as Mulder opened his mouth to speak, Scully

pressed onward. “*But* the FBI doesn’t care what I

believe. They care what I can prove.” She stressed,

“What *we* can prove.”

Mulder shook his head. “The truth cannot always

be proven.” He looked down at her. “Scully, after

all you have seen, after everything you have

experienced, I don’t understand how you can continue

to compartmentalize things the way you do.”

Scully sighed. How often and in how many ways could

she say that she was a scientist? She was also an

officer of the law. She had to concern herself with

the cold, hard facts, not supposition.

Mulder nodded, though she hadn’t said a word. They

had been together for so long that Scully didn’t

need to say anything. Mulder knew the next step

of the argument as well as she did.

“It’s the scientific method.” His voice held what

Scully suspiciously thought was a note of contempt.

“Mulder, as far as the FBI is concerned, belief

doesn’t mean a thing. They want proof.”

“We may not always find proof confirming what we

believe, but belief still means something.” His

words were sharp, quick, and painful as he boarded

the elevator.

Scully asked, “Where are you going?”

“To lunch.”

The doors closed behind him, leaving Scully to stare

at her own blurred reflection in the stainless

steel panels of the elevator doors. She stood there

for a moment feeling breathless and unsettled. She

didn’t like the sensation at all.

Scully became aware of Skinner standing in his office

doorway. An expression of compassion shadowed

his features, even though his voice only contained

clipped professionalism as he requested, “Agent,

would you step into my office?”

She saw A.D. Kersh standing just behind Skinner’s

shoulder.

X X X

Basement Office

J. Edgar Hoover Building

Washington, DC

1:36pm EST

Her heels clicked against the highly polished but

still drab gray tile floor, and the sound echoed

down the empty corridor. With her hand on the

doorknob, Scully paused and took a deep breath.

She knew Mulder was in there. She felt it. . .and

she hated the fact that she hesitated even for a

moment before opening the door. Just as she had

hated the look of frustration on Mulder’s face

just an hour before.

Scully had seen that expression on Mulder’s face

before. Usually it was directed at their superiors,

but sometimes it was directed at her. She could

deal with it. She had in the past, and she would in

the future. In many ways it was her role to play ying

to Mulder’s yang. There were times, however, when

Scully tired of the role. There were times Scully

truly *wanted* to believe, if for no other reason

than because Mulder did.

Still, she was what she was, and somewhere in

Scully’s heart she admitted she would always be a

hard core skeptic.

Light spilled into the office’s dark interior as

Scully opened the door. For a moment she thought she

had been wrong and that Mulder wasn’t there. Then she

heard his deep, well-modulated voice. “Close the

door.” And the familiar ritual began.

Scully approached Mulder’s desk, and he handed her a

pair of plane tickets before he turned to fiddle with

his slide projector.

She noticed the tickets were for an afternoon flight

to Birmingham, Alabama. Scully eyed Mulder. Skinner

had called her into his office to assign a case in

Birmingham. “You know about this?”

Flipping a switch, Mulder illuminated a slide.

“Is this an X-File?” she asked.

“I intend for it to be.”

No doubt that explained the angry look on Assistant

Director Kersh’s face when she had entered Skinner’s

office. Scully had thought the case had come to the

X-Files through Kersh. Now she suspected Kersh’s

presence in Skinner’s office had been because Mulder

had requested the case and Kersh had tried to prevent

the reassignment. That didn’t explain, however, why

two escaped prisoners in Alabama constituted a X-

File. She waited for Mulder to explain.

Mulder flashed the first image on the sceen. It was

a mug shot of a young man, probably in his mid-

twenties with narrow features and a thatch of unruly

sandy brown hair. “His name is Mark Hoyte. He was a

student at Auburn University and a PETA activist who

took his activism a few steps too far when he set lab

animals free.”

Scully took a seat in a chair facing Mulder’s desk.

Mulder continued, “It sounds like a college prank,

until you come to the part where you discover the

animals were being used for drug testing and had been

infected with meningitis. Two students died within

the week.”

Mulder went to the next slide. “In another protest,

Hoyte injected a medical researcher at the CDC with

AIDS-infected blood. He was convicted of attempted

murder, and had been serving his sentence at the

penitentiary in Atmore, Alabama.” He paused before

announcing. “Hoyte escaped two weeks ago.”

The next slide showed a man approximately the

same age as Hoyte, only this one looked scruffier.

He had heavy eyebrows, pale skin, and a mop of

stringy black hair. “James Reardon. He escaped with

Hoyte. Earlier today he was apprehended by a county

deputy in Birmingham, Alabama.”

“That still doesn’t explain what makes this an

X-File.”

Mulder gave a brief smile, and Scully waited for

the twist in the case which had sparked his

interest.

He explained with obvious relish, “According to the

deputy who made the capture, Mark Hoyte disappeared

into thin air. Reardon agreed.”

Scully frowned. “There could be many explanations

for that.”

“There could be.”

But Scully knew Mulder. He wasn’t finished yet.

“What is the rest of the story?” she asked.

He smiled. Scully knew he liked it when she

anticipated his moves, and his pleased expression

eased any of the lingering tention between them from

before lunch.

The two of them might be polar opposites in many

respects. They might not agree on everything, but

for the most part Scully was sure that fact didn’t

bother either of them. Total agreement was not

necessary. It also had the potential to be boring.

The occasional friction of their differing points of

view was necessary. . . and oddly pleasurable. While

they might not always understand each other, they

knew each other all too well.

Scully returned Mulder’s smile. Everything was okay.

Mulder went to the next slide. This one was older, a

vintage black and white photo of three Ku Klux

Klansmen. At the bottom of the slide Scully read the

date — November 3, 1969.

Mulder pointed to the man on the far left. “That’s

Orrin Lancaster. A few days after this photo was

taken, he and his two buddies there blew up an

African-American church in downtown Birmingham. They

killed two little girls and their Sunday school

teacher.”

“I know that case.” She looked at her partner.

“Lancaster was executed a few years ago, wasn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“So what connection does he have with Hoyte?”

“Lancaster bombed the church in 1969. He wasn’t

apprehended by the police until 1983.”

As far as Scully could tell, that information in no

way implied any connection between the two men.

“And?” she prompted, anticipating that Mulder was

leading somewhere with this information.

“And Lancaster was apprehended in the same location

where Hoyte disappeared.”

Scully arched a brow. “That’s quite a coincidence.”

Mulder pulled his feet off his desk and sat forward.

“Want more of a coincidence?”

He went to the next slide, and Scully almost gasped.

The square-jawed face that stared back at her had

been on the FBI’s 10 Most Wanted List for the last

three years.

“That’s David Dean Foster,” she said softly.

Without missing a beat, Mulder began rattling off

facts. “Foster was charged with bombing a stem cell

research lab at UAB medical center, a bar in New

Orleans whose patrons were mostly homosexual, and

the 1998 Good Will Games.”

“He’s a fanatical right wing fundamentalist.”

Mulder nodded. “And a dangerous one.”

Scully rose to her feet and approached the screen.

She stared at the man’s face–a man who had

killed two lab workers and permanently disfigured

a third. A man who had executed a room full of

men for no reason other than their sexual

preferences. A man who had made a name for himself

by targeting the Good Will games. Scully faced

Mulder. “What is Foster’s connection to Hoyte?”

“After the UAB bombing in 1999 there was a massive

manhunt centered–”

Scully closed her eyes and finished Mulder’s

statement. “In the same area being searched for

Hoyte.” She opened her eyes. “Any reports of Foster

disappearing into thin air?”

“Only in the euphemistic sense. There hasn’t been

a trace of him in years, but there’s never been

evidence that he left the area.”

Scully crossed her arms. “So are we looking for

the Blair Witch?” When Mulder cocked his head

to the side and gave her a quizzical look, Scully

said somewhat defensively, “I’m capable of making

pop culture references. People inexplicably

disappearing in the forest–the Blair Witch parallel

is obvious.”

“And outdated.” A smile played around the corners

of Mulder’s mouth.

“Are you mocking me?” she asked.

“I think you started this by mocking me.”

“Maybe. A little. But the reference is still

appropriate.”

Mulder turned off the slide projector. “Perhaps,

but not even I think we’re going to find the Blair

Witch.” As they left the office, he added, “Besides,

the sequel bombed at the box office.”

X X X

Highway 280

Birmingham, Alabama

4:53pm CST

Pale pink petals fell from cherry trees flanking the

entrances to glass and steel corporate buildings

situated behind manicured lawns or partially hidden

by towering long leaf pines. A constant stream of

traffic bisected a wide valley bounded by blue-green

hills which looked picturesque from a distance, but

up close were marred by a mismatched patchwork of gas

stations, convenience stores, and fast food

restaurants.

“Well isn’t that generica,” Mulder muttered as he

turned off of Highway 280, which could easily double

as a six lane parking lot, onto a smaller road which

ran parallel to the highway.

The suburbs looked roughly the same just about

anywhere in the U.S. these days. It didn’t seem to

matter whether they were located in the North, West,

or deep South.

Scully looked with surprise at the impressive line of

emergency vehicles–fire trucks, police cars, a

Shelby County Sheriff’s SUV which, oddly enough,

looked like a Mercedes M class. Indeed, on closer

inspection it proved to *be* a Mercedes.

Mulder addressed her unspoken question. “There’s a

plant that makes them just west of the city, near

Tuscaloosa.”

She raised an eyebrow. “A donation to the police

department?”

“And a nice one.

Other emergency vehicles were parked along the edge

of the street, blocking the old bridge that was

nearly hidden by the modern overpass which carried

Hwy 280 traffic overhead.

“This can’t be right.” Scully checked the directions

Skinner had given. Glancing behind her, Scully noted

a ten story office building sporting the logo of a

telephone company, while in front of her on the other

side of the small river was a busy, up-scale shopping

center. “The escaped prisoner is supposed to be

hiding in the woods.”

Mulder pointed to the oaks, pines, and flowering

dogwoods bowing over the lazy, glorified stream a

green sign marked as being the Cahaba River. “I

see trees.”

“Trees, yes,” Scully conceded. “But do they qualify

as woods?”

The river flowed over a rock spillway before dropping

seven or eight feet downward in a constant, but not

powerful, rush. Less than a quarter of a mile

downstream the river twisted around a bend blanketed

by a thicket of evergreens and deciduous trees with

fresh lime green-colored foliage. It was a far cry

from being a national forest where one might

reasonably believe a fugitive could elude capture for

an extended period of time. This was little more than

a patch of green bounded by civilization on all

sides.

An FBI agent Scully vaguely thought she recognized

carried a McDonalds bag across the street to sit on a

rock facing the river.

“I’ll check to see how things are going,” Mulder said

as he stepped out of the car.

Through the windshield, she saw the lean, dark-haired

agent rise as Mulder approached. After a few

moments she saw the agent gesture emphatically

while Mulder adopted a deceptively casual pose.

Scully opened the car door and moved to join them.

“Go back to Washington, Agent Mulder,” the agent

snapped sharply.

Scully couldn’t hear Mulder’s response, though she

could guess what it might be.

“Look,” the agent facing her partner said. “I’m in

charge of this field operation. I don’t need your

help, and what’s more, I don’t want it.”

Again, she couldn’t hear Mulder’s reply.

The shorter agent’s face changed to a ruddy hue.

“I don’t know if you remember me, Agent Mulder, but

I remember you. Dallas, 1998. You were assigned

to search one building and you searched another

instead.”

Karas. The name came to Scully out of the blue–

Special Agent Nick Karas. He had been Darius

Michaud’s second in command when she and Mulder had

been assigned to the domestic terrorism task force

in 1998 when the X-Files had been shut down.

Karas circled Mulder. “You and Agent Scully were on

the team for what? One week? Two? You ignored

procedure, ignored protocol, and on some whim–”

“Found the bomb and evacuated the building,” Mulder

stated flatly.

Scully stopped walking and closed her eyes. Though a

slight smile touched her lips, she couldn’t help

shaking her head and thinking Mulder never knew

when to keep his mouth closed.

Agent Karas didn’t look impressed. “You then left

town while rubble still littered the streets. It’s

all well and good to play Lone Ranger saying ‘here I

come to save the day–‘”

“That’s Mighty Mouse, actually.”

Even from a distance Scully could see a muscle jump

in Agent Karas’ jaw. “You weren’t there for the

ground work, Agent Mulder. You shirked what

responsibilities you were given. You played hero, but

didn’t stick around for the clean up, for the real

work. The job wasn’t half done, and you were in

Antarctica.” Karas glanced in Scully’s direction.

“I don’t need you or your partner here. I have

everything under control. Go back to Washington.”

A deputy came rushing out of the woods, “Agent Karas,

we’ve found something!”

Nick Caras turned and walked quickly down the path to

the woods. Mulder looked in Scully’s direction. She

nodded, and without a word passing between them, she

followed Mulder into the woods.

Long-fallen leaves and pine needles crunched under

their feet as they followed the sounds of officers in

the distance. The trail passed beneath dappled

patches of sunlight before they reached the rocky

shoulder of the river.

A couple of officers were wading waist-deep in the

water as they crossed the shallow stretch of the

river. On the other side of the Cahaba, a man lay

only half submerged in the water.

“Is that him?” Karas asked, still standing on the

river bank.

The agent crossing the stream stooped to peer into

the corpse’s face, then lifted his hand to give a

thumbs up. “It’s him.”

Karas nodded, then looked at Mulder. “Looks like

you made the trip for nothing. Job’s over.”

“Looks like,” Mulder said softly, but Scully noticed

he was looking in the direction from which they had

come. She didn’t say anything as Mulder walked to

the edge of the waterway. He paused, and Scully

followed the direction of his gaze.

“We didn’t travel far, did we?” he noted.

As they had walked down the path they had rounded the

bend in the river, but they were still less than a

quarter of a mile from the bridge where they had

parked.

Mulder shoved his hands into his pockets and nodded

toward the agents crossing the stream. “Hard to

believe they needed this many people to find a body

lying this close to a U.S. highway in a densely

populated suburb.”

Scully gave a slight shrug. “Perhaps an unwarranted

expenditure of resources, but it accomplished its

purpose. They found Hoyte. The search is over.”

“Mmm-hmm”

The non-committal reply told Scully all she needed

to know. Mulder wasn’t done. When she saw a new car

join the emergency vehicles on the bridge, Scully

straightened her windbreaker and began walking toward

the road. She knew the routine. She would have to

play FBI liaison to the county coroner. She would

also autopsy Mark Hoyte’s corpse.

X X X

Jefferson County Jailhouse

Birmingham, Al

6:40pm CST

Mulder swept the pile of empty sunflower seed shells

off the table and into his hand, but his gaze never

left the convict dressed in a bright orange jumpsuit.

Jimmy Reardon raked his hand through his unwashed

dark hair. He looked quite bored with being

interrogated.

“Why were you in the area?” Mulder asked again.

Jimmy rolled his eyes. “I told you. Lunch.”

“Lunch? You’re on the run, an escapee from federal

prison, and you stop for lunch?”

“A fella has got to eat, right? ‘Sides, it was Miz

Myree’s pie. I’ve been down in Atmore for two years.

You think I’m going to pass up a chance for a slice

of Miz Myree’s pie?”

“You risk being recaptured for a slice of pie?”

“You haven’t had Miz Myree’s pie.”

“Right.” Mulder looked at his notes, and the county

case report. He had been surprised by the fact that

Jimmy Reardon was in the Jefferson County jail when

he had actually been captured by a Shelby County

police officer. As Special Agent Karas had grudgingly

explained, the area where Reardon had been captured

and Hoyte’s body found was a tapestry of

jurisdictions. Some blocks belonged to the city of

Birmingham, others to the city of Hoover, while other

areas remained unincorporated Shelby county or

Jefferson county. More often than not, law

enforcement officers arrived, did their jobs, and

left questions of jurisdiction to the bureaucrats in

the courthouses. In Reardon’s case, since he was an

escapee from federal prison, the law officers had

decided to remove him to downtown Birmingham for the

sake of convenience.

Mulder cleared his throat before starting to speak.

“According to the report it was your friend–”

“Hold it right there. Hoyte was no friend of mine. He

was the environmentalist liberal greenie whacko in

the next cell. We had common goals, is all.”

“And that goal would be what? To escape?”

Jimmy nodded. “In a nutshell.”

Mulder closed the file and rested his clasped hands

on the table. “The report said you claimed your

*fellow escapee* shot–”

“Shot the sheriff?” Jimmy asked with bright eyes.

“It was a deputy.”

“I did not shoot the deputy.” Jimmy smirked, and from

the cadence of voice, it was clear Reardon knew the

song he mocked. “Look, Hoyte was seriously screwy. He

was one of those head cases who paid for that

billboard in Pensacola asking ‘Would you give your

right arm for a shark?’ It’s sick shoving crap like

that in the face of parents who just lost their kid

to a damn *fish.* If you ask me, the kid’s uncle was

right to shoot the thing. But Hoyte? He was upset for

the fish. He didn’t give a damn about the kid.”

Jimmy shrugged. “Guess you can’t expect much else

from a guy who killed two college kids to set bunnies

and lab rats free. Like I said, Hoyte had some

seriously screwed up priorities.”

“So says the federal prisoner,” Mulder drawled.

“Right. So says me. I’m a lot of things, most of them

not nice. But I’m no killer. I was put away for mail

fraud. Don’t need blood on my hands.” Reardon’s gaze

met Mulder’s squarely. He sounded sincere when he

said, “I really didn’t shoot that deputy.”

Mulder believed him. . . plus there was nothing in

Jimmy Reardon’s file to indicate violent tendencies.

“Okay,” Mulder agreed. “Let’s forget the deputy.”

“Wish I could. You ever see brains go splat?” Jimmy

shuddered. “I could live without ever seeing brains

going splat again.”

To be honest, Mulder felt the same, but in his

line of work it was doubtful such a wish would be

granted. These days Mulder was just hoping for a

few months hiatus between hospitalizations. Was that

really so much to ask? Disturbing deaths Mulder

could handle, but he was tired of looking into

Scully’s worried blue eyes while laying flat on his

back in a hospital bed.

Taking charge of the conversation, Mulder brought up

the point he had been leading to since the beginning

of the questioning. “According to your file, you

claim Mark Hoyte disappeared in front of your eyes.”

“Yeah, I’m claiming. So?”

“So did he?”

“Disappear? Yeah, he did.”

Mulder took a deep breath. “Are you sure he didn’t

take an escape route you didn’t see? He could have

slipped away while you were distracted.”

“I know what I saw, and what I didn’t see,” Reardon

insisted. “Hoyte went poof. One second he was there,

the next he wasn’t. It was like Elizabeth Montgomery

on Bewitched or something. . . though I would’ve

preferred Jeannie in a bikini with the pony tail

thingie.” He smiled. “Hey, that rhymed, didn’t it?”

In the face of Mulder’s deliberately blank

expression, Reardon shifted his weight in his chair

and cleared his throat. “Still. . .um. . . Agent

Mulder, you get my point.”

“That you watched too much afternoon television as

a kid?”

“Come on, lighten up. I didn’t mention Gilligan’s

Island or Star Trek.”

Mulder shook his head in disbelief. “It’s amazing

you survived this long in prison.”

Jimmy grinned. “Hey, why do you think I was trying

to escape?” He leaned forward. “Look, I know it

sounds nuts. I know if I keep talking about it

someone is going to haul my ass down to Bryce in

Tuscaloosa to lock me up with the rest of the loons.

But I’m telling you, Hoyte disappeared into thin

air. For real.”

ACT II

Brook Highland Hotel

Birmingham, AL

10:50pm CST

Scully inserted the card key and waited for the

familiar clicking sound of the door unlocking.

Pressing her hand to her lower back, she opened the

hotel room door to find Mulder sitting on one of the

beds with his ankles crossed, watching a Braves

baseball game.

“Nice to see someone is comfortable,” she drawled

as she dropped the rental car keys on the table.

“Someone has clearly spent too many hours in the

morgue. Did the corpses get to you?” Mulder didn’t

bother to glance away from the TV screen as Scully

crossed the room.

“Another day, another autopsy” was her only reply as

she fell backwards onto the bed next to Mulder.

“Find any surprises?” He had finally pulled his gaze

away from the screen to look at her.

“No.” Scully closed her eyes. It had been a long

day.

“Hoyte drowned then?”

Scully rolled over and propped her head on one

hand. “Massive head trauma. He probably fell

while running along the ridge near the river. A

misplaced step, and he took a header onto the rocks.”

Scully heard the crack of a bat making contact

with a ball and the roar of the crowd on the TV. It

captured Mulder’s attention as well, and he watched

the rest of the play before he asked, “Nothing

mysterious?”

Scully lay back once more. “Don’t sound disappointed,

Mulder. I know you *are* disappointed, but don’t

sound disappointed.”

“You know that, do you?”

“Yes. No unexplained chemicals in his system. No

genetic mutations. Nothing the tiniest bit out of the

ordinary. Everything you don’t want to hear.”

“I take it I’m predictable.”

Scully smiled softly while keeping her eyes closed.

“Don’t feel bad, Mulder. We both are.”

“Turn over,” he commanded.

Scully opened one eye suspiciously.

“Turn over,” he repeated.

Scully complied and felt Mulder’s warm hands knead

the tense muscles of her back.

“That’s a nice skill you have there,” she murmured.

“Thought you might like it.”

His fingers pressed firmly into the knotted muscles

of her shoulders, rubbing them, easing the ache.

It felt sinfully wonderful.

“Mmmm.” Scully sighed tiredly, then forced herself

to ask, “So what did you do while I was slaving away

in the morgue?”

“Met Jimmy Reardon.”

She arched a brow. “The escaped convict?”

“None other.” Mulder’s hands moved slowly down her

back then slipped under the hem of her shirt.

“Reardon is convinced Mark Hoyte disappeared.

Literally.”

“And you believe him.”

Scully felt Mulder move closer. She even felt his

breath against her cheek as he whispered in her ear,

“You know I’ll believe almost anything.”

Scully smiled. “I came to that conclusion when we

chased the Jersey Devil.”

She felt the heat of Mulder’s hands moving over her

bare skin, undoing her bra with practiced skill and

coming to rest between her shoulder blades. Somehow

he found the exact, right spot and began massaging

deeply.

This was good. This was nice. This was far, far

better than nice. Mulder should give back rubs more

often.

Scully’s stomach growled.

“No dinner at the morgue?” he asked.

Scully’s stomach growled again. “What do you think?”

“I think you never looked at the other bed.”

Scully reluctantly opened one eye then the other. In

the middle of the other bed lay a large flat box. She

knew that at that moment her smile expressed equal

parts hope and bliss. “Pizza?”

“Just for you.”

Scully rolled off the bed.

As she opened the box, Mulder told her, “Feta cheese,

pine nuts, Greek oregano, and sun dried tomatoes.”

Scully looked at her partner with surprise. That

didn’t sound like Mulder’s usual ‘everything and then

some’ order.

“Agent Karas chose it,” Mulder explained, as he

fluffed a pillow and stuffed it behind his head.

Scully silently raised both eyebrows.

Mulder shrugged, which, considering he was laying

sprawled across the bed, couldn’t have been easy to

do. “An olive branch,” he said, while reaching for

the box and stealing a slice of pizza. “Oh, and there

are olives on this thing, too.”

Scully was too stunned to taste her dinner. “The two

of you went out for pizza?”

“It’s worse than that,” Mulder drawled. “I bought.”

Scully almost dropped the box. Mulder had made a

conciliatory gesture toward an FBI agent that wasn’t

her?

As if he could feel her gaze boring into him, Mulder

explained, “While I might disagree with the way Karas

characterized our actions in Dallas, the fact is,

he’s been assigned to this place for nearly three

years. What started as a manhunt has become a futile

exercise in frustration. Given everything that

happened in New York and Washington in the fall,

Karas has to feel like he’s running in circles while

he’s desperately needed elsewhere. An assignment like

this, for someone in the anti-terrorism division,

must feel like having both arms handcuffed behind

your back and being forced to sit in the corner of a

dark room, while your knowledge and experience are

needed for the rest of the building.

Mulder’s hazel-eyed gaze locked with Scully’s. “I

suppose after Dallas you and I weren’t the only ones

on A.D. Kersh’s shit list.”

Scully recognized the fierce intelligence and insight

mixed with a stunning capacity for compassion in the

depths of his gaze as he told her, “I remember what

it was like when they shut down the X-Files. I didn’t

like it. Karas must be feeling something like that

now. The least I could do was buy the guy beer and

pizza.”

Scully was used to Mulder. She saw him day in, day

out, and most nights as well. She fought with him,

opposed him, and frequently became frustrated by him.

But every now and then she was simply struck by how

genuinely good he could be. Mulder cared about

things passionately, but he also cared about people.

He could be somewhat obsessive, but it was tempered

by moments of surprising empathy. He was–as simple

and understated as it sounded–a good man.

Setting her pizza and the box aside, Scully reached

to touch Mulder’s cheek. He looked at her curiously

as she traced his cheekbones with her thumbs and

threaded her fingers through his short, crisp hair.

He looks tired, Scully thought.

Something in his eyes looked old and worn, as if

Mulder had seen too much somewhere along the line.

And Scully knew that he had. Mulder had seen too

much, endured too much. . .which made it all the more

amazing that somehow he still found a way to believe-

-in people, in things, in the future.

He closed his eyes.

Scully realized the last few months had been trying.

Then she stopped and corrected herself. The last few

*years* had been trying. His entire life had been

about searches and losses. Mulder had once told her

a story about entering his home with his eyes closed,

secretly hoping that one day he would open them and

find his family standing there, including the sister

he had lost.

Scully leaned forward and pressed her forehead

against Mulder’s.

There had been too many injuries, too many brushes

with death, too many injustices, dead friends, dead

colleagues, and dead enemies. Too much. The list

always seemed to be growing, and already it felt

endless.

She laid her cheek against his hair.

Their lives were difficult, and their work was

dangerous. Mulder lifted his face to hers and

Scully pressed a soft kiss to his mouth. She

felt his arms come around her, pulling her to

stand between his legs as he sat on the bed. His

warmth surrounded her, enveloped her.

Scully sighed and confessed, “I think Mark Hoyte was

murdered.” She rushed on before she could lose her

nerve. “There’s no concrete reason I should be

suspicious it wasn’t an accident. His injuries were

consistent with the explanation I gave you. A fall

from the ridge is the most likely cause for the head

trauma…”

“But?” Mulder leaned back a little and they faced

each other as he tucked a stray strand of her hair

behind her ear. “The way your sentence is trailing

off tells me there’s a ‘but’ in there, Scully.”

“But I can’t shake the suspicion that, likely and

logical though my explanation may be, it’s not the

*right* explanation. For some reason–” She couldn’t

bring herself to say it.

“You think he was murdered.” Mulder’s hands moved

rhythmically, soothingly up and down her back. “Is

there anything you want to do about it?”

“I don’t want to go back to Washington.”

Mulder appeared to consider her words for a moment.

“Okay.” He pulled her to him, falling back onto

the bed with Scully on top of him, his hands cupping

her head. “Besides,” he added. “I’ve heard that on

Red Mountain they have a deconstructed statue with

the world’s largest naked iron ass. I don’t

want to miss seeing that.”

X X X

Brook Highland Hotel

Birmingham, AL

11:18am CST

Scully exited the hotel to find Nick Karas talking

to another agent. Several of the agents temporarily

assigned to Birmingham for the manhunt had been

housed in the hotel. Thankfully, because they had

been late to arrive, neither she nor Mulder had been

required to share a room with any of the other

agents. Technically, she and her partner had separate

rooms. Mulder had even slept there. . .eventually.

Karas looked in her direction. Scully supposed Karas

was at the hotel to see off the agents who had

temporarily been assigned to the search. Now they

were leaving. Karas on the other hand would be left

behind, since he was still technically assigned to

the David Dean Foster case.

After a friendly pat on a departing agent’s back,

Karas approached Scully. His features looked less

severe this morning, less tense. He held out his

hand. “I’m sorry you made this trip for what amounted

to so little excitement,” he said in a pleasant

voice.

Scully arched a brow, surprised by the man’s apparent

sincerity. Karas grimaced. “I know I didn’t exactly

put out the welcome mat when you and Agent Mulder

arrived.”

Scully relented. “Given the events in Dallas, I can

understand.” She and Mulder had flaunted the rules

and regulations in that case, but they had also saved

lives.

Scully believed in rules. She was a rule follower if

ever there was one, but she didn’t believe in blindly

following rules simply because they were rules. A

person

had to think for herself. But she did understand why

Agent Karas would be less than thrilled about another

round of help from the X-Files.

Looking somewhat mollified, Karas said, “I know I

was being defensive. Like Agent Mulder said, the two

of you managed to evacuate a building in Dallas. I

have no business resenting the fact that the two of

you disappeared so soon afterward.”

“A mistake we won’t make this time,” Mulder said, as

he exited the hotel.

Karas glanced from Mulder, to Scully, then back to

Mulder. “I don’t understand.”

“We aren’t leaving,” Mulder explained.

Karas frowned. “There’s no case.”

Mulder tossed his rental car keys in the air and

caught them with his left hand. “Scully and I

still have a few questions.”

“Questions?” Karas’ dark brows drew down sharply.

“We had two escaped prisoners. One was recaptured,

the other is dead. Is there something I’m missing?

There are no questions that need answers.”

Mulder walked toward the parking lot. “There are

always questions, Agent.”

After a glance in Scully’s direction, Karas followed

Mulder. . .and Scully followed Karas.

“I was right before, wasn’t I?” The tone of Karas’

voice could only be called accusatory. “You weren’t

here because of Reardon and Hoyte. You came here

because of Foster.”

Scully spoke. “We have questions about the way Mark

Hoyte died.”

Karas pinned her with an angry stare. “It was ruled

an accident. *You* ruled it an accident.”

Scully had nothing to refute that.

“She has questions,” Mulder said for her.

“What questions?” Again Karas looked at Scully.

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Usually she

had something practical, something logical to

say.

There were times when she had the pitch and

demeanor of a drill sergeant, so it felt strange

and wrong to feel hesitant, uncertain, and almost

unwilling to speak. Usually, if she had questions,

they were based in something she could point to and

say, “This doesn’t add up.” The problem here was

Mark Hoyte’s death *did* add up. She had no real

reason to have questions, she simply did. And Scully

didn’t know how to defend that.

Mulder, on the other hand, was far too familiar

with defending the ill-defined and inexplicable.

“We wanted to check the woods where the body was

found,” Mulder explained. “Perhaps there is

something we overlooked.”

Part of Scully resented Mulder speaking for her;

another part of her was happy that he did.

Somehow she didn’t want to be the one accused of

following a whim, then she felt terrible for

feeling that way. Was she really so rooted in

skepticism and that she didn’t want to admit when

her suspicions led her away from the easily

quantified and provable?

Karas’ jaw tensed. He looked angry. “I can’t

stop you,” he growled. “Go ahead. Search. You

won’t find anything. You’re not going to

miraculously stumble over David Dean Foster. I’ve

been searching those woods for nearly three years.

If I can’t find him, he isn’t there.” Karas faced

Mulder squarely. “You aren’t going to play twelfth

hour hero.”

Karas stomped away.

Scully drawled, “I see we still know how to win

friends and influence people.”

Mulder looked far too pleased with himself. “We do

know how to piss people off, don’t we?”

“It’s a talent.” Scully slid into the passenger seat

of the rental car.

Mulder took the driver’s seat. “Counting great

backrubs and understanding the minds of serial

killers, that makes three.”

“Wow, Mulder, four talents. I’m impressed.”

“Four? I only said three.”

“I added another talent.”

Mulder watched her with a flirtatious glint in his

eyes. “And the talent would be. . .?”

Scully refused to crack a smile. With a straight

face she said, “Driving.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Mulder still looked absurdly pleased with

himself, but–what the hell–Scully rather liked it.

Fifteen minutes later they once again parked above

the spillway. Mulder got out of the car, but Scully

didn’t move. He walked around the car and opened her

door. Scully could feel Mulder’s silent, questioning

gaze on her. She knew they were here because of her.

It felt strange.

She looked at her partner. “I’m not sure what we’re

looking for.”

Mulder didn’t say anything, but Scully knew what

his reply would be–the truth. They were looking

for the truth. They were always looking for the

truth. Scully knew that. What she couldn’t figure

out was what they were hoping to find.

What possible proof could their be that Mark Hoyte

had not simply fallen from a rock ledge into a

shallow river?

Mulder appeared purposeful but unconcerned. “Let’s

look around and see what we can find.”

And hope that Mulder’s incredible intuition kicked

in? Scully wondered if that was what she was really

hoping as she stepped out of the car. How

many cases had they solved based on nothing more

than one of Mulder’s incredible leaps of. . .not

logic. Logic so rarely applied to the intuitive

leaps Mulder made.

She examined Mulder’s profile and wondered if

perhaps some small part of the reason Mulder found

answers where no one else would or could was because

he left himself open to them? He was willing to

believe.

Which left Scully. . .where? Mulder was the

intuitive one. She was the one walking around

demanding cold, hard facts. Why were they here

at her request?

She didn’t know. Scully honestly didn’t know. She

didn’t know why she had disbelieved the conclusions

of her own autopsy when those conclusions had been so

simple, so clear, so logical. She didn’t know why

she was following Mulder into the woods once more.

She didn’t *know* why. . .she just knew that it felt

right.

After walking for ten minutes or so, Scully realized

that it felt like her blue windbreaker was sticking

to her skin. For an early spring day it seemed

unusually warm. The air felt thick, heavy, and humid.

She glanced at the canopy of trees and could see the

sky was a pale gray. “Did you check the weather

report?” she asked.

“Rain is expected later today,” Mulder told her as

he made his way down the river embankment.

This time they had walked down the side of the river

where the body had been found. They picked their way

down a narrow trail that ran along the ridge until

they had made their way to the water’s edge.

Standing on the rocky shoal, Scully looked up at the

ridge they had just traversed. “The drop is far

enough to explain the injuries Hoyte sustained,”

Scully concluded as she found Mulder kneeling looking

at the spot where the body had been found. “Find

anything?” she asked.

Mulder stood. “I’m afraid not–just rocks,

water, and a few blood stains.”

Scully searched for any rocks which might be big

enough to use as a weapon to cause Hoyte’s head

injuries. Of course, such a rock wouldn’t mean

anything. For it to be a weapon, someone would have

to wield it. There had only been two prison escapees,

and Jimmy Reardon had been captured.

“Could there be any connection between Hoyte and

Foster?” she asked.

Mulder shook his head. “Nothing obvious. Hoyte is

a political radical and Foster is a religious

fundamentalist. There isn’t much social overlap

between those groups.”

“Not much,” she agreed. “But is there any?”

“I don’t think so.” Mulder faced Scully. “Last

night, between going for pizza and waiting for you

to return from the morgue, I did some research. It’s

possible Foster had some connection with Orrin

Lancaster, but there’s nothing to indicate any

association with Hoyte. Lancaster burned crosses,

wore sheets, and terrorized anything he perceived

as being different from himself. On the other hand,

Hoyte wrote pamphlets demanding restitution be paid,

both for slavery and the for the relocation of

Southeastern Native American tribes such as the

Choctaw, Cherokee, and Cree. For the way they were

driven west on the Trail of Tears.”

Mulder paused, then said, “I also found something

else that might be of interest–at least of

historical interest.”

Scully stood at the river’s edge, examining the spot

where the Hoyte’s body had been found.

Mulder continued, “A Civil War battle was fought in

this general area.” Mulder approached the striated

rock wall. “A Union officer wrote an account of it,

and some historian has it posted on his Web site.”

“And?” Scully knew Mulder wouldn’t mention the

account if he didn’t think there was a connection.

“And the Union officer swore the Confederate

regiment–a rather large Confederate regiment–

literally appeared out of nowhere.”

Scully examined their location. The vegetation

around them was rather thick, dense, and dark.

While she knew they stood less than a mile from a

busy business district, it was impossible to guess

that from their immediate surroundings. The area

would have been remote and isolated more than a

century earlier.

“I would assume the Confederates were more familiar

with the area, and therefore in a better position

to know where and how to conceal themselves,” she

conjectured.

“Perhaps.” Mulder looked thoughtful.

“But?”

“But it was a *very* large regiment.”

She saw Mulder glance at her over his shoulder.

“There *is* a connection, you know,” he told her.

“Between all of them. Hoyte, Lancaster, Foster. . .”

“You just said there wasn’t.”

Shoving his hands into his pockets, Mulder

approached her. “Not a concrete connection, but

a ‘similarity of purpose,’ if you will.”

“A similarity of purpose? You just said that

Lancaster and Hoyte were on opposite ends of the

political spectrum.”

“And they are, or at least, they were.”

Scully frowned then proceeded to ‘think’ out

loud. “But Foster, Hoyte and Lancaster all shared

a tendency to use violence to defend a cause.” She

lifted her gaze to meet Mulder’s. “One could even

make the argument for the Confederate soldiers.

Is that the connection you’re hinting at–violence

in defense of a cause?”

“That, too.”

“Too?” Scully arched a brow.

“To use violence to defend a cause means *having*

a cause, Scully. They believed.”

“Believed what?”

“Different things. The point being, they believed

in *something.*”

She tried considering that for a moment, but

something inside her insisted that the idea was

absurd. “Are you seriously suggesting these woods are

a Mecca for people who believe in lost causes?”

“Not quite, but close.” Mulder looked distracted,

as if something had caught his eye. “Did you see

that?”

“See what?”

Mulder pointed to the top rocky ridge. “There. Did

you see that flash of light?”

Scully squinted and shaded her eyes with her hand.

“I don’t see anything.” Something didn’t feel right.

“Mulder?” She looked over her shoulder, but he

wasn’t there. “Mulder?”

There was no sign of him, not a trace.

The water’s surface was like black glass–still,

dark, and tranquil. The rock shoal stood barren, and

the ridge overhead uninhabited.

“Mulder, where are you?”

X X X

Scully had disappeared into thin air. . .not that the

air felt thin at the moment. Actually, the air felt

pregnant with energy. But the fact remained that

Scully was no where to be seen. She had literally

disappeared before his eyes.

Mulder looked around himself. Nothing else had

changed. It was a bit sunnier than it had been, but

other than that, everything was exactly where and how

it had been only a moment earlier. . .except Scully

was gone.

Something came whizzing by his ear. He recognized

the sound. Someone had shot at him!

Mulder dove for the ground as another bullet buzzed

overhead, hitting the surface the river with a

small splash that radiated concentric circles of

disturbance across the water.

All too aware of the flat, barren rock around and

beneath him, Mulder lay exposed. He needed cover.

Luckily, a bullet wasn’t lodged in him.

Pressing his hands against the rock, Mulder shoved

himself to his feet and ran toward the rock wall

of the ridge. If he pressed himself against

it, he would at least provide a smaller target for

whoever was shooting at him.

Scully, where are you? Mulder wondered.

X X X

A low, deep roar of thunder reverberated through the

valley, amplified by the rocky surroundings of the

river and causing Scully to look skyward with

trepidation. The clouds were now a dark, ominous

charcoal gray.

Scully had hiked up and down a quarter mile stretch

of river shoreline twice looking for any sign of

where Mulder might have gone.

She hadn’t found a thing.

People couldn’t disappear without a trace, Scully

reassured herself. It was impossible. Clues might be

missed, or trails lost, but someone did not disappear

without leaving clues behind.

Except this wasn’t ‘someone.’ This was Mulder.

And this wasn’t Mulder walking into another room and

then her not being able to find him. This wasn’t

Mulder walking deep into the forest and her not

knowing where to find him. Mulder had been standing

beside her–right beside her–and he had disappeared

in mid conversation.

It couldn’t be. . .and yet it was.

Scully felt the thunder come again. It was closer

now, and seemed to vibrate inside her as well as

around her. As Scully felt the first drops of rain

pelt her, she decided to make her way up the ridge

to search for a better view of the area.

X X X

He had to move. Mulder knew it. Pressing himself

against a rock wall might provide some small

protection, but it wouldn’t last long. The shooter

would move soon, and where would Mulder be? If Mulder

was standing where he was now, he would be nothing

more than a human bull’s eye.

He heard something.

It was the sound of a twig snapping–which might mean

nothing. Listening intently, Mulder became acutely

aware of the sound and feel of his own breathing in

an oppressive silence devoid of the sounds he would

have expected so close to the city. Why couldn’t he

hear the sound of traffic on Highway 280? He wasn’t

far away, yet somehow the unnatural stillness that

pervaded the woods made Mulder feel as though he was

completely isolated from civilization.

He waited for the sound to come again. Seconds

passed before it did. Someone or something was off to

Mulder’s right. He turned to search for the sound’s

source, but little light penetrated the dense canopy

of trees causing deep, impenetrable shadows.

Mulder waited.

Nothing.

He stepped away from the wall.

Still nothing.

He heard another loud snap, the sound of a branch

breaking beneath someone or something’s foot. Mulder

whipped his head around, trying to locate the source

of the sound or at least to find who stalked him. .

.but no one was there to be seen.

Mulder decided to run for it. It was the only

reasonable choice. He took a deep breath and started

running, only to be stopped by another sound directly

behind him.

“Don’t move, Mister!”

Mulder turned to face David Dean Foster.

X X X

ACT III

Woods near the Cahaba River

Birmingham, AL

3:12pm CST

Rain beat steadily down on Scully as she trudged

through the woods, pushing aside the underbrush and

calling her partner’s name. She wasn’t sure exactly

how long she had been doing it, but she had passed

the point where she seriously believed Mulder would

answer.

The sky was oppressively dark now. Looking around

her, there was little way to tell whether it was day

or night. Cloud cover was dense, the rain steady and

hard, and wind rushed overhead, causing the tall,

slender pines to sway to an astounding degree. Scully

wouldn’t have been surprised to hear one of them snap

or see one fall, pulling up its roots.

She hit the speed dial on her cell phone and waited.

One ring. Two. Three, and a mechanical sounding voice

answered, saying the phone she was trying to reach

was out of the calling area.

“Damnit, Mulder,” Scully muttered to herself. “Where

are you?” There was no possible way he was out of

the area, but she had made the call more than a

dozen times. The message was always the same.

A flash of lightening made Scully shiver, and she

counted the seconds before hearing the crash of

thunder. The storm looked–and felt–fierce. It

was dangerous to stay out in it, but she had to

find Mulder. As a last resort she used her phone

to dial a different number.

X X X

Diffused sunlight beat down on Mulder, and it felt

good. The gun aimed at his skull, however, did not

inspire pleasant sensations.

“I told you not to move!” Foster yelled when Mulder

shifted his weight.

Mulder reassured the man, “I’m not moving.”

“How many of you are there?”

“What?”

“Feds. You found me, but how many of you are there?”

Mulder debated what he should say. As far as he

knew, the only other person in these woods was

Scully. . .even if he couldn’t find her at the

moment. It would probably be wise to keep her

presence a secret, as Scully might be the only

advantage Mulder had. On the other hand, Mulder could

try bluffing and saying that there were dozens of

agents in the vicinity.

“How many!” Foster demanded again.

Mulder studied the fugitive. Foster looked like

hell–sunburned, unshaven, and unclean. In fact,

Foster looked exactly like what he was. . .a

homicidal hermit. Mulder kept his hands held high

above his head, not wanting to give Foster cause to

shoot.

The way Mulder saw it, he had only one chance at

making it out of this alive. He dropped like

dead weight to the ground.

“Hey!” Foster looked confused by Mulder laying

on the ground, curled in the fetal position and

clutching his chest.

“Get up,” the fugitive commanded. “Get to your

feet.” Foster reached down and grabbed Mulder

by the shoulder.

It was what Mulder had been waiting for. Wrenching

clockwise, he hammered his foot into Foster’s knee

and dragged the fugitive to the ground. Grabbing the

man’s wrist, Mulder struggled to knock the gun from

Foster’s hand.

Foster punched him.

Ignoring the pain, Mulder jabbed his elbow into

Foster’s neck, while managing to loosen Fosters’s

grip on his weapon. Unfortunately, Mulder was unable

to grab the gun for himself as it fell from his

opponent’s hand.

Pushing off the ground, Mulder propelled himself to

his feet as Foster struggled to reach for the lost

gun. Mulder staggered, but managed to kick the gun

out of Foster’s reach. It tumbled off the edge of the

rock drop off.

An infuriated growl burst from the fugitive as Foster

struck at Mulder, kicking at the back of Mulder’s

legs in an obvious effort to knock Mulder to the

ground. Mulder jumped out of reach and searched his

surroundings for something to use as a weapon. If

they were fighting one on one, Foster had the

advantage. Foster outweighed Mulder by at least

thirty pounds.

What in the hell had Foster been eating while hiding

in the woods for three years?

The ridiculously superfluous thought streaked through

Mulder’s mind even as he lunged toward the rock ledge

and jumped.

X X X

Scully’s shoes squished uncomfortably as she pushed

wet hair out of her face only to have a fierce wind

whip it into her eyes again. As she rounded the bend

in the river, she saw the bridge just ahead and was

relieved to see an SUV parking there. Slipping

momentarily in the mud but quickly righting herself,

Scully made her way up the rise to the road just as

Nick Karas circled his truck.

“Thank you for coming,” she said, raising her voice

to compensate for the low roar of wind and thunder.

“How long has he been missing?” Karas sounded gruff

and businesslike as he opened the rear door of the

truck to allow a German Shepherd to jump to the

ground.

“Two hours or so.” The dog walked up to her and

sniffed her shoes. “I tried his cell phone but the

message kept coming back ‘out of area.'”

Karas frowned and pointed to the ten story building

across the river. “Cell tower. If Agent Mulder is in

these woods, there’s no way he’s out of area.”

“He’s in the woods.” Scully looked over her shoulder

at the rising river. Water that the day before had

fallen over the spillway in a slow, weak rush, was

now tumbling powerfully over the rocks.

Karas patted the dog’s head. “Have anything of his?”

Scully frowned, then Karas’ question connected. He

needed something with Mulder’s scent for the dog.

“Hold on.”

She went to the car and pulled out Mulder’s

windbreaker. Handing the jacket to Karas she again

looked down at the spillway. “How is the water rising

so fast?”

“Major storm to the Northwest. Flash flooding.

Tornadoes. If I didn’t say it in Dallas, let me say

it now–you and your partner have godawful timing.”

Scully couldn’t deny it–not that she wanted to

discuss it at the moment. It was time for action.

“I’m glad you brought the dog.”

Brushing her hair behind her ear, Scully walked

steadily toward the woods without bothering to look

to see whether Karas would follow. He would.

X X X

Mulder began having sympathy for the idiots

in the Blair Witch Project. Tucked somewhere in his

memory was a line of dialogue about the impossibility

of becoming lost in America. If you walked long

enough in any direction, you were bound to run into

someone. Civilization bordered you on all sides. So

why had he been walking for what felt like hours

without finding a sign of life?

His cell phone wasn’t working either.

Mulder wondered whether he was walking in circles. It

seemed likely. By all appearances he was in the

roughly the same area as where he had jumped off the

ledge.

Of course, things could be worse. He could be dead,

or shot, or injured. Mulder had been lucky that the

ledge from which he had jumped had only been four or

five feet high–high enough for him to duck out of

sight, but not so great a distance that Mulder had

hurt himself with the fall.

After pulling his gun from his holster, Mulder had

doubled back to the location of his confrontation

with Foster. Only Foster had no longer been anywhere

in sight. Hardly a surprise, but the situation was

dangerous nonetheless. Foster was still out there

somewhere. . .and so was Scully.

Mulder had then decided to follow the river upstream,

hoping to reach Highway 280 and call for

reinforcements. He should have made it to the bridge

long before now. He and Scully had not traveled far

before they had been separated, and, despite all the

walking Mulder had done since they had parted,

Mulder’s instincts told him he hadn’t crossed much

terrain.

Mulder paused and looked up at the hazy blue-gray

sky. Shouldn’t it be dark by now? For some reason his

watch had stopped, but his internal clock insisted

that sunset should have come and gone.

Then he heard something. It was a faint sound. It

could be an animal, but if was an animal, it was in

distress. There was something choked and desperate

about the cry.

Mulder tried to tune out the constant low roar of

rushing water that now crashed through the deep

ravine as he tried to locate the animalistic cry for

help. The river had been steadily rising for…well,

for however long he had been walking. The water had

also turned the color of dirty, melted orange

sherbet. Mulder guessed it had something to do with

the river picking up silt from the red clay of the

surrounding terrain. It was something to be

expected if there was a flashflood, only it wasn’t

raining. The sky was. . .well, the sky was not

precisely clear, but there was no rain. Still, in

defiance of logic, the water level of the river

continued to steadily rise.

Mulder felt a cool breeze stir his hair even as

he held himself perfectly still, listening for the

sound which had caught his attention. Finally, it

came again, a sputtering sound, broken and

intermittent, as if a creature was dying and gasping

for air.

Mulder ran down the hill, sliding on loose dirt and

gravel until he reached water’s edge. Shading his

eyes with his hand, Mulder looked up river to see

David Dean Foster, shoulder deep in pale orange

sludge gushing over the spillway.

A twig snapped under Mulder’s weight when he rushed

forward. It grabbed Foster’s attention, and he turned

and aimed a pistol at Mulder. In synchronized motion,

Mulder raised his own weapon.

It was a stand off. Neither man fired.

“Lower your gun,” Mulder demanded.

Foster gave a bitter sounding laugh. “Right.”

“Do it!”

“How ’bout I shoot you instead?” Foster threatened.

“You can’t. You need my help.” At Foster’s look of

disbelief, Mulder shouted. “You’re trapped, aren’t

you?” It wasn’t really a question.

Foster blinked. The water was higher still, and the

torrent falling over the spillway and slamming into

his shoulders grew steadily more violent. The fact

that Foster hadn’t moved indicated to Mulder that

Foster *couldn’t* move.

“What happened?” Mulder asked. “Did you try to

cross the river at the spillway–”

“I fell. My foot got trapped between some rocks.

That all right with you, asshole?”

Mulder inched forward cautiously. “Can you move

your foot at all?”

“If I could, do you think I’d be standing here

having my head beat in by the river?” Foster

never lowered his gun even though the water had

risen as high as his shoulders.

“I’ll pull you out.”

Foster brandished his gun recklessly. “Don’t need

and don’t want your help.” The water rose to his

neck.

If the level kept rising at its present rate,

Foster would drown in minutes.

“Let me help you.” Mulder slowly, painstakingly

worked his way toward the spillway.

Foster fired his gun.

X X X

The thick, orange mud sucked at Scully’s feet as

she made her way up the embankment. She and Nick

Karas had hiked back to where Mulder had disappeared.

The dog Agent Karas had brought yelped eagerly while

leading both herself and Agent Karas through the

woods. . .to exactly where they had begun. They

stood on the river bank just below the spillway,

only yards form the Old U.S. 280 bridge.

Scully shouted to be heard over the rising sound

of the storm as she shone her flashlight in Karas’

direction. “The dog must have lost the scent

somewhere.”

“Are you surprised?” Karas’ voice sounded harsh,

even in the din of the storm. “We’re in the

middle of a flash flood. No scent can hold up to

a several thousand gallons of water, and the river

is overflowing its banks.”

Scully backed away from the river’s edge. “We

should double back once more.”

“Hell no!”

“We can’t stop now. We haven’t found Mulder.”

Between the darkness and the torrential rain, Scully

could barely make out the outline of her fellow

agent’s features. A flash of curtain lightning

highlighted thick, billowing black clouds, and was

immediately followed by a violent, deafening crash.

Somewhere beneath the cacophony the dog’s anxious

yelping continued.

Karas lifted his head. “Agent Scully, this is

insane!”

Scully glanced toward the 280 overpass, then back

to the impenetrable darkness of the woods as she

nervously fingered the small cross at her throat.

Karas caught her windbreaker’s sleeve. “I know you’re

worried about your partner, but it’s dangerous to

stay outside in this kind of storm.”

Still she tried to search the darkness. Karas

shook her gently. “Agent, do you hear me?”

Scully glared at Karas fiercely. “Yes, Agent Karas,

it *is* dangerous to be out here, but my partner is

missing. He may be injured, and as you have just

pointed out, the river has overflowed its banks and

is still rising. We have to find Mulder.”

Karas ran his hand through his dark, wet hair. “And

where do you suggest we search that we haven’t

already looked?”

Scully started down the embankment once more, but

Karas caught her, swinging her around to face him.

“The trail is dead, Agent Scully. Even the dog

can’t find anything.”

“If you want to give up, give up,” she snapped. “I’m

not leaving without my partner.

Scully wouldn’t budge. “I know you have little reason

to like Mulder. I know you think he’s arrogant and

that he’s stepping on your toes–”

“Do you really think I give a damn about that

now? He’s a fellow agent–”

“Yes, he is. So you *know* we can’t leave him.”

Once again she plunged into the blackness of the

storm.

X X X

Mulder had watched bark peel and splinter away from a

pine tree inches to the left of his shoulder after

Foster fired his gun. The bastard had almost killed

him.

“I bashed that kid’s head in yesterday,” Foster

yelled. “Don’t think I won’t–” he choked on a wave

of water “–kill you.”

“I can’t believe–”

“Back off!” the fugitive ground out in a vicious

voice. “You aren’t taking me in. Not alive anyhow.”

“You can’t want to die,” Mulder protested.

“Sure I can. If I die, it’s in a righteous cause.”

Another wave of water hit him solidly. “God can take

me home as far as I’m concerned.”

“You aren’t being rational. Think!”

“I am thinking. This is my way out.”

Mulder stared at the man in disbelief. “This is no

way out.

“Don’t you get it? God’s calling me home. It’s my

reward for doing God’s work, for taking out the

queers and fags, for stopping that research using

unborn baby’s insides, for striking back at all that

global village crap. I–” He choked and bobbed under

a wave of orange-tinted water.

The man was dying, and for what? Some insane,

misguided, half-assed cause? Foster was killing

himself out of blind stubbornness and stupidity.

“I’m not going to prison!” Foster yelled. “I’m not

letting you win. Got that?”

Mulder shook his head. “It’s not about winning.”

“You ain’t got no faith, man. If you did, you’d

know it’s an honor to die for what you believe.”

Really?

As Foster’s head disappeared beneath a surge of

muddy water, Mulder dove into the river. He couldn’t

stand by and watch a man die–even a wild-eyed,

fanatical bastard.

X X X

Karas called after her. “This is insane!”

Scully stopped. “No, it’s not.” Even though some

part of her agreed with Karas that it was.

“Mulder is here and we’ll find him. Tonight.”

“If we don’t drown first. What the hell were the

two of you doing out here anyway? The Hoyte case

was over. Done. Did the two of you honestly

believe you could show up and find Foster, when I

haven’t been able to in three years of searching?”

Karas confronted her. “The joke is on you, Agent.”

The dog ran up to Karas, who absently patted the

animal’s head. “You and your partner can’t find

Foster because he’s not here to find. Haven’t you

figured it out yet? This is an exercise in futility,

courtesy of Assistant Director Kersh. It’s his way

of punishing me for that mess in Dallas.

Scully couldn’t believe it. “That’s absurd.” Not

to mention unjust and vindictive. From all

she knew, Karas was a good agent. It would be the

height of asinine behavior to assign Karas to a

do-nothing, go-nowhere case in some blindly petty

attempt to punish Karas for an event over which he

had no control. Then again, it was Kersh they were

talking about.

With his shoulders slumped, Karas asked, “What did

the two of you hope to find?”

Scully almost gave him Mulder’s standard reply–the

truth. She looked at Karas. “We were looking for

answers. That’s all any of us can do.”

“Look around you, Agent Scully. Do you see answers?”

Scully fingered the cross that hung on a narrow

chain around her throat. “Not yet, but I haven’t

stopped looking. I won’t stop looking.” She lifted

her chin and gave a steely stare. “And I *will* find

what I’m looking for. I believe that.”

The rain stopped.

Just like that, the rain stopped. It was strange and

unnerving, and at first Scully thought lightning had

struck again because it was no longer pitch dark.

She turned off her flashlight and studied her

surroundings as she tried to shake her feelings of

disorientation and confusion–the same feelings she

had experienced when Mulder had disappeared.

Mulder.

Skidding down the hill, she was long past the point

of caring about the damage done to her clothes and

therefore unconcerned when she sank into soggy red

clay almost to her knees. Wading into the edge of the

river, she shouted, “Mulder!”

Battling the current, he turned his head toward her.

“Scully, stay there.”

Then she saw he was dragging a body with him as he

sidestroked to the shore. Trudging through the

mud, she followed him downstream, where Mulder was at

last able to reach the shore.

Falling to her knees beside the body, Scully prepared

to perform mouth to mouth resuscitation, but Mulder

gently placed his hand on her shoulder and shook his

head. “He’s gone. He was underwater a good ten

minutes before I could free him.” And she saw

from the look in his eyes that this bothered Mulder.

She looked down at the body. It was David Dean

Foster. Somehow Scully wasn’t surprised, but then why

would she be? Hadn’t Foster been what she and Mulder

had hoped to find?

She heard Mulder sigh.

Scully asked, “You said ‘free him.’ Was he trapped?”

“In more ways than one.”

Scully shot Mulder a quizzical look.

Mulder explained, “He attempted to walk across the

spillway. Things didn’t go as planned. His foot

became caught–”

Scully finished Mulder’s statement for him. “And he

drowned in the rising flood waters.”

“I tried to save him.”

That didn’t surprise Scully. She knew Mulder. He

was a good man, a moral man. She reached to cup his

cheek, and felt the scratch of his stubble against

her palm and saw the disappointment in his eyes.

His shadowed gaze locked with hers. “It wasn’t just

his foot that was caught, you know. He had this

whole skewed belief system. It was insane, and it

made no sense, but he was willing to die for it.

He believed in it that much.” Mulder looked at

Foster’s dirty, cold body. “It wasn’t worth killing

or dying for.”

X X X

What the hell? Nick Karas suddenly found himself

plunged into darkness. “Agent Scully?” he called.

“Agent, where are you?”

There was a flash of lightening, and Karas saw

a body floating half in, half out of the river.

“Agent Scully!” Sliding in the mud, Karas plunged

into the water. A sick sense of dread settled over

him as he waded toward the body. It was probably

Agent Mulder. Karas didn’t want to see the look

on Agent Scully’s face when he had to tell her.

Lightning and thunder struck almost simultaneously

as Karas neared the corpse. The sound was enough to

completely drown out Karas’ shocked gasp.

In the blue-white lightening of the storm, Nick Karas

stared into the face of his three-year-long snipe

hunt.

“Son of a bitch,” he whispered.

It was David Dean Foster.

“You find something?” Agent Mulder asked

from where he and Agent Scully sat at the

river’s edge.

EPILOGUE

Miz Myree’s Bar-B-Q

Birmingham, AL

12:13am CST

“So, you’re letting Agent Karas write the report.”

Scully removed the cellophane wrapper from her

plastic fork.

Mulder shrugged. “It was his case.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“You sound doubtful.”

Scully smiled. “I’m trying to decide whether this act

of generosity was motivated by your allergy for

writing reports or because you were sympathetic to

Karas’ predicament.”

Mulder took his slice of pie from the waitress.

“Because I hate to do paperwork, of course.”

She didn’t believe him.

“You’re looking pensive,” Mulder said softly.

Scully raised an eyebrow. “Pensive?”

“Go with it. It’s an accurate description. What’s

going on in that complicated head of yours?”

Scully leaned forward. “We’re closing a case. We

have two dead bodies, and we know exactly how they

died. Not only that, the methods of their deaths

were completely ordinary.”

“And you have a problem with that?”

Scully shook her head. “We have all the answers we

need–concrete, believable answers.” She tilted her

head to the side. “But those answers really don’t

explain anything. They don’t explain how or why.”

Mulder shrugged. “Isn’t the old adage that science

explains how and faith explains why?”

“But in this case science doesn’t explain how, and

as far as faith is concerned. . .” She felt as though

she had reached an impasse. Faith was simply that–

faith. It was either there, or it wasn’t.

“There are none so blind as those who will not see.”

“Okay, Mulder, now you’re just shooting bull.”

Mulder crossed his arms and leaned against the table.

“They believed, Scully. Each of them in his own way

believed they would find what they were looking for.”

“Okay, so Hoyte believed. Lancaster and Foster

believed. Does it strike you as something of a waste

that this metaphysical Zion was reserved for

fanatical killers?”

“Perhaps not. Unless you’re calling me a fanatical

killer.” Mulder paused and looked at Scully with a

curious expression. “Speaking of which, exactly how

did you find me?”

She didn’t answer.

“Scully?”

She couldn’t hide anything from Mulder. She knew

it, and the truth was, she didn’t want to. Scully

fingered her cross and confessed, “Mulder, you may

believe almost anything, but I’m far more

particular.” She reached across the table and took

his hand. “One of the things I happen to believe in

is you.”

He stared at her for a long moment, then smiled.

“Okay.”

She sat back in her chair. “Still, where this case

is concerned, it looks as though we’re in the company

of killers.”

“Not necessarily.” Mulder picked up his own fork.

“When I was doing research, I found that the area by

the river was used as a stop on the underground

railroad during the time of slavery. As far as I can

tell, faith and belief are morally neutral. It’s

possible to believe fervently in many things, either

good or bad. You’d probably be well advised to be

careful what you choose to believe, never losing

sight of the facts or reality.”

Scully considered that conclusion and decided she

liked it. Reaching across the table, she dug into

Mulder’s pie.

“Hey!” he protested. “You could have ordered your

own.”

“That’s okay. I’ll just have some of yours.”

“Typical.”

X X X

Mulder watched Scully as she stole forkfulls of his

pie. She looked happy, and he liked that look on her.

All in all, things had worked out well. He had even

managed to connect a few of the dots in the case.

The underground railroad had been targeted by “The

Brotherhood” in the 1850s. It was possible that

Lancaster had learned some of the area’s secrets from

the terrible secret society to which he had belonged,

and it was possible he had passed that knowledge onto

Foster.

On the other hand, he’d found something hidden in

Mark Hoyte’s research for his pamphlets on the U.S.

owing moral restitution to mistreated minorities–an

historical account of early Spanish explorers of the

area claiming to have heard tails of a mysterious

place called “Tuscaluza.” It was supposed to be a

utopian place, but the explorers had decided it was

yet another of their ‘lost cities of gold.’ The

natives had proceeded to send the explorers on a

year-long wild goose chase for Tuscaluza, until De

Soto’s men had either deserted, died, or returned to

Spain. Like Nick Karas, they had never found that for

which they had searched.

Maybe they had never had enough faith that they would

find the answers?

Thankfully, he and Scully had solved the problem

for Nick Karas, and Mulder was more than happy to

allow Karas to take credit for finding David Dean

Foster. Karas had earned the right, and as a fringe

benefit it would infuriate Kersh. It would have

infuriated Kersh more for Mulder to claim the honor,

but Karas claiming it would be enough. Karas had

lost years of his life in the search for Foster.

Thinking about the dead fugitive made Mulder

grimace. Mulder had watched the man willfully die

for a passionate but deluded belief. Even as Foster

had gone under the last time, the man had clung to

the belief he was right, that he was being rewarded,

that his own death and the deaths he had caused were

justified. Foster had been wrong.

Scully stole another bite of Mulder’s pie, and after

licking the confection off her fork she gave Mulder

a soft smile. Suddenly Mulder realized he didn’t

want to die for some nebulous, ill-defined belief,

or for an X-file he could not really prove.

There were things in this world worth dying for.

A manila folder in a basement filing cabinet was not

one of them. Because–Mulder playfully swatted

Scully’s hand as she raked the whipping cream off

his slice of pie–he realized he had something to

live *for.*

The truth was, when he really looked at his life, he

realized he enjoyed it. He enjoyed searching for

answers to impossible questions, and he enjoyed

asking those questions with this woman at his side.

He had a life to be envied. He had a job that served

a purpose, a job that he enjoyed. And he had a woman

who happened to be the most important person in his

world, who also happened to believe in him. Yes, it

was a life worth living. . .he just wished it

involved fewer hospitalizations.

X X X

End