Plot

Author: Martin Ross

Category: Holiday/casefile

Spoilers: Synchrony, Law and Order: Criminal Intent

Summary: Scully is drawn into the investigation of an old college

“friend,” who appears to be leaving her clues to a possible murder.

Rating: R for sexual content and language

Disclaimer: To Chris Carter, who took crime into new realms, and Dick

Wolf, who enforces Law and Order on the networks.

The last time I saw Melissa Cline, I’d narrowly avoided practicing one of

my then-new Quantico chokeholds on her. Instead, I emptied my mimosa

into her Prada bag while she was perusing the brunch bar, dropped some

currency on the table, and left her cooing over the gymnastics of the

omelet chef.

She never called back, and I never looked back. Well, I suppose I later

regretted the petulance I showed in my parting gesture – or perhaps the

fact that “Missy” likely considered the lining of her pricey handbag a

small price to pay for getting my goat. Melissa had been one of the

University of Maryland’s most relentless and perceptive goat-hunters, and

nothing had changed five years later, when she’d blown into Washington

to heckle my decision to leave medicine for federal law enforcement.

She’d brought fresh blood to the wounds of disappointment Dad had

inflicted.

Mulder, obviously, finds the story hilarious and periodically cajoles me to

repeat it to others. If Missy savors goat heart, Mulder relishes raw Achilles

heel. I’ve tried unsuccessfully to ration his servings, and I swore off Missy

Cline altogether.

Or so I thought.

“So, did you ever read the novel?” Missy asked as she looked over my

shoulder at the New York skyline. It had been her novel, of course – a

signed Christmas gift, and her first to crack the New York Times list.

Missy’s futuristic tales of crime, espionage, and romance had bridged two

disparate readerships, even if they hadn’t won the hearts of the entire

critical community. I’d quit after about 30 pages, the buzzing in my head

after about two hours and a couple of wine coolers.

“It was fun,” I smiled.

Missy nodded appreciatively. “We’re talking with Jolie about playing Ava

Phoenix.” Phoenix was her recurring FBI agent-sleuth, prone toward a

jarring mélange of hardboiled cop jargon and wistful romanticizing. I

prayed I wasn’t her inspiration, although she had shown uncharacteristic

interest in my graduate thesis on quantum mechanics and time. Missy’s

recently dermabrased face clouded. “If the whole deal doesn’t fall through

now.”

“Is that why you called me?” I asked, careful to keep the acid out of my

tone. “I didn’t expect to hear from you again after our last meeting.”

Missy smirked fleetingly. “Water under the bridge, Dana. But I will admit

I could use your help with this thing.”

“This thing” was a dead 17-year-old who Missy allegedly had caught

attempting to burglarize her apartment two weeks earlier. She’d secured a

carry permit a year or so ago to protect herself against a stalker, and when

Anthony Underwood tried to attack the returning condo owner, Missy had

exercised her Second Amendment rights.

The case had seemed fairly cut-and-dried at first – Missy had sustained

some bruises and scrapes from her altercation with Underwood, and there

had been a series of neighborhood robberies prior to the shooting. But then

the wire had started exploring Underwood’s back story – high school

salutatorian, multi-lettered varsity athlete, prospective Yale recruit from a

solid middle-middle-class family. He also owned a substantial science

fiction library, and the press on the case forked off toward two basic

hypotheses: a.) Anthony Underwood was a buff gone bad, a junior league

Hinckley or Chapman who’d become obsessed with Missy; or b.) Missy

was an aging femme fatale who’d lured, then rejected, a young fan and

would-be suitor.

That the shooting had occurred on Valentine’s Day only fueled the

media’s affection for the case.

“After I passed the polygraph test, the press started to die down,” Missy

continued. “But this detective on the case is psychotic, obsessed. Goren.

He keeps insinuating I cold-bloodedly murdered that boy.”

I sighed. “I don’t know what you expect me to do. I’m sure the local

police would only resent my interference, and you passed the polygraph,

right? If this Detective Goren is fishing, I’m sure this will pass soon

enough. Missy, why did you call me, anyway? I don’t want to appear petty

or insensitive, but you have to admit we were never the best of friends.”

“Yeah, I know. But I’ve kept up with your career. You understand things.”

I frowned. What did she mean, I understood? Because I was a woman?

Surely it wasn’t because of my “special” assignment with Mulder. Missy

was up to something here. I waited for her to elaborate, but she sat

silently, studying me.

“All right,” I finally murmured. “I’ll talk to your psychotic detective.”

**

For once, the queen of hyperbole wasn’t far off the mark: There was

something distinctly unsettling about Det. Robert Goren.

After leaving Missy’s, I called a friend of Mulder’s on the NYPD, and

he’d filled me in. Goren had been a star on the Narcotics Squad prior to

his transfer to the Major Case Squad, racking up 27 major arrests and 27

convictions. Now, he was one of the department’s top homicide cops and a

fierce interrogator who specialized in playing both good and bad cop

almost simultaneously. Goren was into French Impressionism, knew fluent

German from an Army stint, and enjoyed ballroom dancing. His

knowledge of psychology and behavioral science was encyclopedic and

instinctual, though he’d never bothered to earn the doctorate. Goren was a

lapsed Catholic (join the club), and his mother reportedly was

institutionalized somewhere upstate.

And while he talked like a tenured NYU criminology prof, he looked like

and seemed to have the sly savvy of many of the more lethal psychopaths

Mulder had profiled over the years.

“You’re a friend of Ms. Cline’s, then,” Goren stated with an ingratiatingly

unnerving smile. His hands were steepled before him on the tabletop, and

he was an oasis of serenity in the center of the diner’s whirlwind of

activity. His partner, Det. Eames, was as petite and elfin as he was hulking

and troll-like, but she sat silently and seriously as her partner took stock.

“We knew each other in college,” I answered neutrally. His smile

twitched.

“She’s a very assertive woman, I mean, your friend, Ms. Cline.” Goren

shrugged, almost apologetically. “Isn’t she? A real take-charge sort of

person. Lots of charisma? Wouldn’t you say?” He looked to Eames, who

nodded curtly. “What struck me about Ms. Cline is how she almost takes

command of any room she’s in. It’s a trait I admire, though, well, I guess

it could probably be off-putting to those closest to her.”

“Detective,” I murmured. “Let’s save some time here. I know Melissa

Cline, we went to the same university, and we shared the same social

circle. However, as you’ve obviously surmised, we’re not what you’d call

close friends. I hadn’t seen her for nearly a decade when she called and

asked me to look into your investigation. I will say I don’t see Melissa as a

cold-blooded killer.”

Goren glanced at Eames with mock astonishment. Her brows rose and fell.

“Yeah, Danielle Steele meets Isaac Asimov. You don’t think she has it in

her?”

I sighed. “I don’t believe Melissa has the depth or passion necessary to

have seduced and then lured this young man to his death. Melissa was

never inclined toward relationships that didn’t have some professional

end-goal. In college, she dated boys who could offer her social

advancement on campus or a step up on the career track. The rest she

dismissed offhand — ‘Not if he was the last man on Earth,’ she always

said.” I swallowed the bitterness in my voice as Goren’s eyes sharpened.

“I just don’t see what the point would have been for her — the Underwood

boy wasn’t what she wanted, served no purpose.”

Goren nodded. “You ever read The Portrait of Dorian Gray, Agent? You

know, your ‘friend’ has been slipping on the Times list lately. Last book

didn’t crack 13. Maybe Underwood was what she needs right now — a

little reflected glory, a little ego validation.”

“From what I understand, you haven’t been able to establish any evidence

they even knew each other, let alone had a relationship going. Did you

check his e-mail? If they hooked up, that’s likely how it would’ve

happened.”

The detective’s smile vanished, and he blinked as if at a minor annoyance.

“Everything was clean there — no sign of any communications between

them, or that he’d deleted any messages between them. Underwood’s cell

phone was clean, too. Likewise with your friend’s PC.”

I sipped my coffee. “Detective, have you read any of Melissa’s books?”

Goren’s smile reappeared, like a snake returning to feed on carrion. “I

scanned a few.”

“Well, what was your impression?”

“Derivative but innovative, if that’s possible. Sound scientific research

and expert extrapolation of future technology and social trends. The

characters, the dialogue, the plots, on the other hand, were hackneyed,

clichéd, but smooth and calculated. If I had to guess, I’d say she has a

professional researcher or maybe a ghost, except her first book had the

same style, well before she hit the bestseller lists.”

“The media has made a big deal out of Anthony Underwood being a sci-fi

fan,” I persisted. “But do you seriously see a teenaged boy getting into this

derivative hybrid romance Melissa writes?”

“No,” Goren conceded. “But I do remember what teen boys are into, and

I’d say your friend meets the necessary criteria.”

**

“Well, you know what Jon Bon Jovi said,” Mulder finally piped up after

I’d filled him in. “Shot through the heart, and you’re to blame! Honey, you

give love a BAD NAME!!”

He was on speaker back in D.C., and I smiled despite myself as I pictured

him performing a flawless air guitar solo.

“It just doesn’t track,” Scully said. “Any of it. Missy seducing some high

school kid, him being attracted to her. Missy calling me — we’re not

precisely sorority sisters.”

“Maybe that’s it,” Mulder suggested. “She wants an objective viewpoint,

and who would be more objective than the woman who ruined her best

handbag?”

“Let it go, Mulder.” I leaned back against the pillow. “Look, you said you

filed your report on the Jeffords case. Why don’t you take a few days’

personal and come down here?”

“I don’t know, Scully. I’m checking a lead on the Centaur killings…”

“Did I mention I’m naked?”

“C’mon, I have to beg you to take off your sensible suit to take a shower.”

“Well, I’m sure I could be naked on a moment’s notice, if offered the

proper inducement.”

“I heard it’s raining up there. Should I bring my raincoat?”

“Bring a whole box of them, Mulder.”

**

“It’s ridiculous,” Mary Underwood spat, setting her coffee cup down with

a thump. “Tony falling for some older woman. He had a girlfriend — a

very sweet, gorgeous girl. I’ve seen this Cline woman on TV — he’d never

go for that silly, preening woman.”

Nathan Underwood stared at his wife as if trying to understand her words.

Grief had energized Mary’s anger and outrage; it had virtually paralyzed

Nathan. Their home was small but tidy and tasteful, and I suspected their

lives were the same.

“I’m sorry I have to bring all this up again,” I offered. In truth, I felt like

crap, coming here to pry information from these people on behalf of the

woman who’d shot their son. They hadn’t even questioned why the FBI

would be investigating Anthony’s death. “I’m just trying to understand

how your son and Ms. Cline might have come into contact. They seemed

to be from two different worlds. If he didn’t know her…”

Mary’s arm shot out and grabbed a plaque from the nearby fireplace.

“Look at this — Anthony was last year’s state National Meritorious

Scholar. He kept up a 4.0 and, AND led his school team to a regional

championship. He could’ve got an athletic scholarship, but he was going

to get a degree in microbiology and help people. I know, I know,” she

shrilled, holding up a hand to stop a thought I hadn’t expressed. “Good

kids go bad. Well, not Tony. You can check — he had a good weekend job,

he didn’t party, and the school made the whole team take drug tests just

three weeks ago. Tony was clean — you can check.”

“Mrs. Undwood, I’m not trying to impugn your son’s character. It’s just,

well, this is baffling. Was Tony having any problems at the time of his

death, any anxiety?”

“He seemed fine,” Mary murmured, replacing the plaque with care.

“Happy, full of enthusiasm about his future…”

I turned to Nathan. He looked up in astonishment, suddenly remembering

we were there, then sighed. “No, nothing I can think of. Well, just the

wallet…”

**

“They didn’t think it was important,” I explained. Goren leaned back in

his chair, saying nothing. Eames leaned forward, the yin to his yang.

“Anthony reported it missing a few days before, after going downtown

with some friends to see a concert. He thought it was probably lifted on

the subway. He was missing a driver’s license he hardly used, some family

photos, and about $20 in cash, so he wasn’t overly concerned.”

Goren nodded and pulled out the top drawer of his desk. He reached in

and extracted a plastic evidence bag. Inside was an assortment of personal

effects, including a black cowhide wallet.

“$23,” he corrected with a grim smile. “Looks like some good Samaritan

recovered Anthony’s wallet. Maybe this Samaritan called Anthony and

asked him to come to their place to retrieve it.”

“We had no reason to run it before,” Eames told her partner, not me. “I’ll

have the lab dust it.”

“Sure,” Goren said, smiling at me. “Who knows what we’ll turn up?”

**

“God, an FBI agent,” Yvonne Redmond breathed. “That’s incredible.

Then again, who thought I’d be one of Chicago’s top contract lawyers?

Doesn’t exactly summon images of adventure and intrigue, does it?”

Missy wasn’t home when I got back to the hotel after dinner, so I’d made

another calling card call. Yvonne had been one of Missy’s friends, at least

before Missy had worked enough of her magic to chill their relationship.

“Yvonne, I’m sure you’ve seen the news about Missy Cline.”

“Oh, shit, yes. Freaking unbelievable. Wait — you aren’t working on that

case, are you?”

I shifted the handset. “I know this is going to sound strange, but do you

remember when Missy disappeared for that half-semester, then came back

to school that January? There was some talk she’d been seeing campus

Mental Health Services.”

Yvonne was silent for a moment, then sighed. “I don’t why I’m even

hesitating, after she fucked my boyfriend in my own apartment. She’d

been having some delusions, I guess you’d call it. Missy was hearing

voices. Weird voices, she said — she thought they might even be alien

voices. But after she got back from her little sabbatical, she was fine,

better than ever, like nothing had happened. In fact, it was like Missy had

been born again. Ha.”

“What?”

“Oh, I was thinking about something goofy she said after she’d had her

psychological epiphany or whatever. I was worried about my spring mid-

terms — my boyfriend and I had been having trouble, I didn’t know why

yet — and she told me to relax, that everything would be fine for the both

of us. That she just knew. I remember thinking I’d liked her better as a

pessimistic bitch. Oh, well. So when are you coming out this way? We’ll

get together, shop, catch up. Reunions are a blast.”

I laughed hollowly. “Yeah, this one is.”

**

I hadn’t brought Missy’s novel with me. In fact, I wasn’t positive I still

had it. So I dropped into the lobby gift shop and bought a fresh paperback

copy.

It was both a fast read and a slow one, full of fascinating futuristic detail

and staggeringly one-dimensional dialogue and predictable plot

development. Ava Phoenix obviously was a romanticized rendition of

Missy – beautiful, brilliant, confident, and utterly desensitized to her

colleagues, friends, and lover. One out of four, I guess.

Two hours and a room service cheeseburger later, I put the book down and

rubbed my bleary eyes. What had Missy wanted me to see here? Why had

she thought I could help?

Had someone asked Missy to lure Underwood up here and ambush him?

Why – what would be the purpose? Who’d want to kill a high school jock,

an A student, a potential scientist with the power to save lives?

I jumped. The sound of a strange phone ringing is one of the most jarring,

disorienting sensations.

“Yeah,” Mulder mumbled wistfully.

“You downstairs?” I asked, working at my blouse buttons.

“Keep your pants on. At least for a while. We got another body — Skinner

thinks it’s a Centaur murder. I gotta check out the scene, talk to the local

cops, I don’t know how long. Maybe I can drive down after.”

“You’ll be beat,” I sighed, heart falling. “Maybe tomorrow.”

“Maybe. I could…”

The rest was lost in the hiss of a hostile cell.

“Love,” I whispered, hoping stupidly the sentiment somehow would

transcend electromagnetic interference.

**

“Look, it was just a job,” Edward Tweaks protested. “Snag the wallet, give

it to the lady. Nobody said anything about killing anybody.”

Goren pulled a chair to Tweaks’ side of the interrogation table, positioning

himself inside the professional pickpocket’s personal space. “Well, that’s

too bad, because somebody got killed, and we have your fingerprints on

his wallet. Why didn’t you wipe it clean?”

“Gettin’ older, I guess,” Tweaks frowned sourly. “Lady said she just

wanted to fix up a meeting with the kid – you know, it was a couple of

days before Valentine’s. I figured she liked ’em young and hard, you

know?”

Eames smiled sweetly.

“So you’re like Cupid, huh?” Goren grinned. “You think you could

identify our smitten lady?”

“Sorry, Ace. She had on this Yankees cap, brand-new, bill wasn’t even

broke in. And some Raybans. And she was talking like Jessica Rabbit –

you know, that actress lady with the sexy voice. I wanna help you. Believe

me, I wanna help. But she was, what do you call it, incognito.”

“But she knew where Underwood lived, right?” I asked. “You said you

followed him on the subway.”

“Naw, she told me what school he went to, and I followed him home, then

downtown. Then I delivered the wallet to the Princess at the Starbuck in

Times Square, like she said.”

“The Princess,” Goren savored. “So she was a sophisticated lady?”

Tweaks sneered. “She thought it was made outta gold, you know what I

mean? I told her, ‘Why you want some kid when you could have a real

man with a little life experience?'”

Goren leaned in, glancing furtively at me and smirking with a “just-us-

guys” look. “So, what’d she say to that?”

“Not if I was the last man on Earth.” He glared at the interview table.

“Thought it was made outta gold.”

**

I don’t know, really, why I didn’t share Missy’s favorite kiss-off line with

Goren and Eames. But I did feel the need to get together with my old

college pal.

“You did it, didn’t you?” I demanded as she opened her apartment door.

Missy stared blankly at me and waved me in. No shock, no indignant

disclaimers.

“You must have called one of the police sources you use for research and

told him you wanted to interview a pickpocket,” I continued. “You figured

the odds were with you, because once Tweaks was implicated in

Underwood’s murder, he couldn’t precisely come forward, could he?

“But I wonder what your psychopathic homicide cop will find out if he

checks the credit receipts at that Times Square Starbucks where Tweaks

met his ‘sophisticated lady.'”

Missy’s blonde head jerked toward me. It wasn’t as satisfying as I’d

envisioned.

“Plus,” I sighed, “he told us you’d displayed your customary charm with

men — men for whom you no longer have any use — when he tried to

come onto you. Your dialogue is as clichéd as your fiction.”

“I’d be insulted,” Missy said coldly, “but I suppose the ship’s already

sailed.” There was a slight fuzziness to her speech. I glanced beyond her

to the kitchen counter, where a pitcher of cosmos sat pinkly awaiting her

return. Probably’d seen it on Sex and the City.

“So tell me,” I demanded. “Why did you murder that boy?”

“Murder,” Missy muttered, shaking her head as if I failed to grasp a

crucial point. “I thought you might be able to understand, but I realize now

you lack the emotional capacity.”

I stepped forward and grabbed her forearms. “Melissa, quit screwing

around. Eventually, Goren is going to make his case against you, even if I

don’t tell him what I know. And I have no idea why I haven’t. So tell me:

Why did you call me, of all people?”

Missy jerked her arms free and stumbled to the couch. Her fingers found

the cosmo on the coffee table. “I remembered our talk, that time in the

campus grill, when you told me about your work, where you wanted to be

someday. It was the only time I felt like we almost connected, that I

almost connected to someone real and substantial. I was starting to slip at

the time, and I needed that. And, believe it or not, that 10-minute

conversation actually helped me do what I needed to to get back on track.”

I searched my memory, recalling only my endless babbling about quantum

mechanics and her gushing about her literary aspirations. She hadn’t

seemed to be “slipping” at the time… Then I recalled my conversation

with Yvonne.

“The voices,” I murmured. Missy put her drink down.

“That bitch always was untrustworthy,” she laughed. “Bet she loved

getting payback for Mark and I.”

“Actually, she was quite concerned about you, at least until ‘Mark and

you.’ Tell me about the voices, Missy. Is that what you thought I might

understand?”

“Fuck the voices,” Missy snapped. “You’d never understand in a million

years. Dana the cop — just you and your gun and your flying saucers.”

She must have done her research — I didn’t precisely brag about my tenure

with the X-Files, and god knows, the Bureau didn’t crow about Mulder

and I.

“I doubt you have any concept of love — what it does to you, what you’d

do for love!” she yelled. Missy tried to jump up, and fell back onto the

cushion.

“Love?” I puzzled.

“Just, just get the fuck out of here! Go back to Washington! This must be a

real rush for you — me drunk on my ass, about to spend the rest of my life

in prison. Get the fuck out of here.”

It seemed like a good idea — the only one I could comprehend at that

moment.

**

I had the key card halfway into the reader when I heard the rustling inside.

I silently retrieved my weapon from my purse, slowly slipped the card

home, and kicked the door open as soon as the green light flashed

admission.

“Shit!” Mulder gasped. I lowered my gun, heart pounding — he was lying

on the bed, reading the TV Guide, and he very clearly was unarmed.

“Good thing I wasn’t the housekeeper,” I sighed, feeling a sudden rush of

mingled serenity and adrenalin flowing through my body. “I’ll tell you

what, Mulder: I’ll holster my weapon if you holster yours’.”

My partner looked down. “Sorry. Just happy to see a colleague.”

“Speaking of which,” I murmured, tearing at buttons and zippers. “Good

thing this is a sensible suit.”

**

The hotel air conditioning chilled the sheen of sweat covering my body,

but Mulder’s arm aside, I didn’t care to get up to adjust the thermostat.

Instead, I pulled the comforter to our chests.

“So why’d she do it?” he eventually asked.

“How’d you know…? Never mind. I have no idea, Mulder. You think you

have someone sized up, but I’m at a total loss. This boy was a parent’s

dream, a promising student. He had the rest of his life in front of him…”

Mulder turned me to face him as I struggled to grasp what I was

considering. “Scully? Scully, talk to me.”

“The voices,” I whispered. What love had done to Missy. What she’d done

for love, God help her. But the question remained. Why?

It was unfathomable, inconceivable. No wonder Missy was so confident

she’d get away with it. Goren would never make a connection between her

and Underwood, would never trip to the motive. He could make a

circumstantial case — almost certainly would — but her attorney could

create enough reasonable doubt to render a verdict unpredictable.

Mulder rustled in the dark, brushing the hair from my face. “You need me

to leave you alone?”

My arm searched under the covers and found its objective. Within

seconds, my chill was gone.

“I’m glad you’re a trained observer,” I gasped.

**

Goren had tracked the Starbucks receipt and the cop who helped Missy

lend an ersatz authenticity to her pulpy drek. They’d come to her

penthouse at 8 a.m. with a warrant, and she’d politely declined her

Miranda-Excobedo rights. When her publisher foisted an attorney on her,

Missy told him and Goren where to go and used her one call on me. I

started to use my federal leverage on Goren, but he beat me to the punch,

Eames in tow, or at least in tandem.

“I understand,” I said simply when we were alone. “But you were wrong,

morally wrong. You murdered an innocent human being.”

“And saved how many?” Missy asked, quietly.

“We’ll never know. I guess that’s the point. When did you decide your

voices were real, that you’d lucked into a literary gold mine?”

Missy looked hurt, then conceded the point. “It was what you said, about

time travel being physically conceivable. And it was just one voice. He

was as surprised to hear me in his head as I was to hear him. After I began

to consider the possibilities, I realized I could never have imagined the

things he told me. I’m sure you’d acknowledge I never had a lively

imagination.”

Before Missy’s call, I’d intended to research the incidence of cross-

temporal telepathy. Mulder and I had worked on cases where the dead had

communicated with the living, seemingly across time. Missy’s “voice”

had reached backwards, for whatever reason, tapping into a talent God had

somehow seen fit to grant her.

In a figurative irony, the voice had become Missy’s “ghost,” feeding her

details about his future. Certainly, if Missy’s works had endured, he’d

eventually have realized how she’d used his confidences.

“I reread your novel,” I told Missy. “The well-meaning scientist who

almost wipes out the world’s popluation with his mutated viruses. That

was Underwood, wasn’t it? Something happened, in the future. Recently,

in your timeframe, I mean. Had he grown up to be a microbiologist,

Underwood would have done the original work that ultimately led to that

catastrophe, right? That’s what your ‘voice’ told you, at least.”

At some point, they’d fallen in love — the mother of all long-distance

relationships. It was no coincidence that Missy had committed her horrible

act on Valentine’s Day.

Missy was silent for a moment, a flicker of doubt crossing her face. Then

she appeared to have made a decision. She looked up at me, a smile and a

trail of tears on her face.

“I always knew you’d make a difference someday, Dana, and that I never

would. But whatever happens, I have to believe I did. He’s gone now — I

knew whatever we’d had would be gone forever once history corrected

itself. But that’s what love is, right — sacrifice?”

I had nothing to say to that. “So, who was your ‘voice,’ Missy?”

Missy laughed, sadly. “Believe it or not, he actually was a federal agent —

the only one who had time to take the retroviral antidote after the

bioweapon was released into the atmosphere. Who else would he have to

be? The last man on Earth.”

*end

Title: Sinfully Delicious

Author: Vickie Moseley

Category: Valentine’s Day

Summary: Mulder plus Valentine’s equal sudden violent attacks? Must be an X file.

Written for Virtual Season 13’s Valentine’s Day Special Event

Two weeks exclusive on VS 13 site, after that archive at will

Disclaimer: no copyright infringement intended.

comments: vickiemoseley1978@yahoo.com

Bachman’s Jewelers

Georgetown, Washington DC

February 6, 2006

12:05 pm

“It’s a beautiful watch, sir. I’m sure your lady will be very happy with it,” the

salesclerk gushed as she placed the timepiece inside a plastic bag. “Now, our

engraving department promises all items purchased before Friday will be completed

by Valentine’s Day next week, so what would you like on the back?”

Mulder thought for a moment and then smiled. “Do you have a piece of paper?” he

asked. The clerk nodded and handed him a small post it note. Mulder quickly

scribbled a few words and handed it back to the clerk. “Can you make that out?” he

asked.

“Oh yes sir. A lovely sentiment, to be sure. Now, I’ll just finish filling out your

paperwork and you can be on your way.”

Mulder sighed in relief. Even in the crowded jewelry store, he felt the weight of the

world had been lifted from his shoulders. He’d finally found the perfect Valentine’s

gift for Scully. Sure, he hadn’t exactly come up with the idea out of the blue. If the

ER doctors at Howard University Medical Center hadn’t demolished her old watch in

their efforts to start IV lines in her arms to replace the blood lost after their run in

with murderous Professor Brown, she wouldn’t need a new one. But the fact of the

matter was they had and she did and that was how he found himself placing half a

month’s salary on his American Express card to pay for a watch that, according to

the salesclerk, could withstand impact, survive under 50 feet of water and the

watchband was replaceable.

He glanced down at his own watch and noted that he still had almost half his lunch

hour left to burn. He walked out onto the sidewalk and smiled to himself. He had

enough time to run to their place for a quick bite to eat before heading back to the

Hoover Building. Scully was having lunch with Tara and her mom, so he was pretty

much on his own.

Tara and Maggie. Not for the first time did Mulder think about the other two women

in his ‘extended’ family. He knew that Matty would be making both of them

Valentine cards in school and no doubt little Claire would draw them heart pictures

on red construction paper. But it wasn’t the same as getting something nice from

the man in your life, he pondered. As he walked down the street to where he’d

parked his car, his glanced ahead and saw a sign he’d not noticed earlier.

‘Cordially Yours’, the signboard said as it swung in the February breeze. A large

chocolate bon-bon was painted at the top of the sign. It was a beacon to him and he

followed it willingly.

The shop smelled wonderful as he stepped in out of the cold. Cases filled with every

bon-bon and chocolate confection imaginable lined the side and back of the store.

Other chocolate items were packaged and sitting on shelves on the other side of the

store. A jolly man in a white apron was waiting on a customer while other customers

examined the wares.

A table in the middle of the store held foil covered heart shaped boxes. The sign

above read ‘Don’t Forget That Special Someone’ and the price of $19.95 per pound.

Mulder saw that the boxes were empty, the customer could choose what confections

would be held within. Inspiration struck and he grabbed three of the heart shaped

boxes and then made his way over to the line waiting at the counter.

Hoover Building

Feb. 10, 2006

7:45 am

Mulder juggled the coffee cups while Scully pulled out her keyring and opened the

office door. Mulder hurried past her to place the overwarm papercups on the edge of

his desk. “Starbucks thinks they have the answer with those little cardboard

sleeves, but they just don’t make the grade over the long haul,” he groused. He

pulled off his overcoat and headed toward the coat rack by the door when he noticed

that his partner was staring at an envelope in her hands. “What’s that?”

“I don’t know,” she replied, turning it over several times as if it might divulge its

origin. “There’s nothing on the front. No address of any kind.” She handed him the

envelope while she shrugged out of her coat.

Handling it carefully by the edges, Mulder walked over to his desk and pulled a letter

opener out of the top drawer. At Scully’s startled gasp, he sliced open the top of the

envelope. When nothing explosive happened, he grinned at her.

“Mulder, one of these days — ” she warned but he was already busy withdrawing the

contents and placing them on his desk blotter. She moved closer to look around his

shoulder. “Newspaper articles,” she noted.

“Yeah, five of them,” he replied, picking up the first one and examining it in the light

of the skylight. “It’s labeled the Philadelphia Daily News, day before yesterday.” He

sat down in his chair and started to read the article aloud.

“Gunman opens fire in Suburban Mall,” he intoned. “A gunman opened fire on a

crowded shopping Mall in suburban Lima yesterday. Police identified the shooter as

35-year-old Harvey Rossman of Lima. When police attempted to arrest him,

Rossman opened fire on the officers, who returned fire. Rossman was shot and

killed. Two unidentified women were injured in the gunfire and were treated and

released at Lima Medical Center.”

While listening to her partner’s recitation, Scully had picked up one of the other

articles. “This is from the Dover Post. A 40-year-old salesclerk at a department

store grabbed a knife and started attacking shoppers. She was arrested after a

scuffle with police and is now in a psychiatric hospital undergoing evaluation to see if

she’s fit to stand trial.”

Mulder scanned the other three articles. “They are all spree attacks,” he said,

picking each up in turn. “A state employee started pummeling coworkers in a

cafeteria in Trenton, New Jersey, a truck driver attacked patrons with a tire iron at a

truck stop in Atlanta, a retired postman went berserk at a bingo game held at a

senior center in Shelton, Connecticut.”

“Well, at least the postman had an excuse,” Scully joked. “So why did someone

send us these articles?”

“Gee, Scully, you’d think after all this time, you’d have figured that out,” Mulder

quipped. “Look, I’m going to do a little snooping here, see what I can find out about

these attacks. Want to take half of them and share the joy?”

“Shouldn’t we mention it to Skinner before we go spending a lot of time on this?

They sound like random attacks, Mulder. People do just go crazy once in a while.

Besides, I have an autopsy scheduled this afternoon and I thought we were working

on the quarterly report later.”

At his curled lip and grimace, she had her answer. “OK, you see what you can dig up

on these attacks and I’ll put together the figures for the report. But Mulder, before

we go haring off anywhere, we will get a 302 from Skinner,” she warned sternly.

“Yes, Mom,” he muttered.

Five o’clock came and went and Mulder was still engrossed in his search for

information about the five attackers. Scully had finished compiling the statistics for

the quarterly report and was getting ready to close down her computer. “Mulder, it’s

time to go. Remember, we’re expected at Tara’s by 7 and I want to take a quick

shower.”

He looked up at her blearily and confused. “What time is it?”

She shook her head and walked over to stand next to him. She pointed to the

bottom right corner of his computer screen. “See this? It’s called a clock. Some of

us use it to determine the correct time.”

He shifted in his seat and pulled her into his lap. “Someone’s quite the smarty pants

this evening,” he said, giving her a squeeze.

“Find anything interesting, or were you just playing Spider Solitaire all afternoon?”

“Scully, all those people who were killed or arrested, none of them have a history of

criminal behavior or violence. Rossman was the Cub Master of his son’s school.

Marion Benton, the salesclerk, was a part time yoga instructor and avid follower of

transcendental meditation. These people were not your average ticking time bombs

of insanity.”

“Mulder, you can’t possibly know all the stressors they faced just by looking through

the police reports. Maybe Rossman was facing a bitter divorce and custody battle.

Maybe Benton was a closet sadomasochist. And besides, did you find anything that

would link them together?”

Mulder sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “No. They lived in different states;

none of the attackers knew one another. They attended different colleges, different

churches, even different civic organizations and clubs. I can’t find a single thing that

would link they together — except, of course, the unprovoked nature of their

attacks.”

“Well, as much as I would like to say you could solve this riddle tonight, we have a

previous engagement and I’m almost positive that Tara said something about beef

stroganoff.”

“You know I love your cooking, Scully, but Tara has a way with a slow cooker.”

They were just about ready to leave the duplex when Mulder remembered his

purchase of earlier in the week. He joined Scully on her way to the car carrying the

two heart shaped boxes of candy.

“Mulder, when did you get those?” she asked.

“When you three went to lunch. I thought I’d pick up something for Tara and your

mom. Just for the holiday.”

She looked at him with an unreadable expression before she pulled him down for a

bruising kiss. When she let him come up for air, he had a goofy grin on his face.

“I take it I did something right for a change?” he guessed.

“You do things right a lot of the time, G-man, and this time you outdid yourself. But

where did you get these? They don’t scream Whitman Sampler.”

“I found a little candy boutique on Wisconsin,” he said slyly. “And if someone is

really nice to me, they might find a similar box next to their breakfast on Valentine’s

Day morning.”

“Oh, you can bet I’ll be nice to you, Mulder. When we get home tonight, I’ll show

you just how nice!”

Tara Scully’s residence

Fairland, MD

“Dinner was wonderful, as always, Sweetheart,” Maggie said fondly as she kissed her

daughter-in-law on the cheek. “And you, Fox — I haven’t received a box of

chocolates for Valentines in, well, I don’t even want to think how long it’s been!

Thank you so much!” She cupped his cheek and gave it a pat.

“Yes, I’m going to put this box somewhere out of the reach of little people who can’t

appreciate the finer things in life,” Tara announced, grinning and clutching the foil

heart to her chest. “They can have conversation hearts and chocolate kisses, the

cherry creams are mine!”

Mulder chuckled, but secretly he was pleased at their reactions. From the look on

her face, his partner was appreciative of his generosity, too.

“Dana, you can sneak one if you want,” Tara offered, starting to pry off the lid.

“No, but thanks, Tara. A little bird told me I have a box in my future. I don’t want

to waste the calories eating all of yours.”

“Well, I think I’m going to save them, too. If I eat one piece a day from Valentines

on — I should have enough to last through March!”

“Lent begins March First this year,” Maggie cautioned.

“Then, I’ll just have to eat three pieces a night,” Tara replied with a smile.

“And on that note, I think we better get out of here before someone starts counting

up the calories I’m guilty of doling out,” Mulder said dryly.

Mulder reached out to open Scully’s door and she pulled him down for another

scorching kiss. “Woman, shouldn’t we wait to get home, I don’t want to give Matty a

sex ed lesson in his own driveway!”

“I just wanted you to know how much I love you. And how much I appreciate how

you treat my family,” she said, buckling her seatbelt.

“I consider them my family, too, Scully,” he said softly.

“Good,” she replied, taking his hand. “Because from the looks on Mom and Tara’s

faces, you couldn’t get out of this family with a truck full of C-4.”

“Gee, all this over some chocolates? What would happen if next year I gave out

roses?”

She smiled seductively. “Why don’t you try it and find out?”

Hoover Building

February 12, 2006

9:45 am

Mulder straightened his tie in the glass of Skinner’s outer office. There was no need

to stop to chat with Kim, she had the day off, as did all the rest of the support staff.

“Sorry I didn’t get your message earlier, sir. I was out for a run. Scully’s at Mass, I

left a message on her cell phone and one at home. I’m sure she’ll join us when she’s

able.”

“Thank you for coming in on a weekend, Mulder,” Skinner said amiably. He picked

up a folder from his desk and handed it over to the agent. “What do you think of

these?”

Mulder leafed through the pages and looked up at Skinner. “I don’t mean to give

credence to my nickname, sir, but I’m one step ahead of you. I started looking into

these same attacks on Friday.”

“How did you find out about them? The local police in Birmingham didn’t request our

involvement until late last night.”

Mulder shrugged. “We got an anonymous envelope under our office door on Friday

morning. There were five newspaper articles. But I see that there have been other

attacks since then.”

Skinner nodded. “A total of nine attacks so far. Admittedly, it’s not the number that

has us concerned. Random attacks take place every day, we both know that. But

these attacks are being perpetrated by people who have no previous history of

violent behavior. To be honest, Mulder, I was wondering if maybe — other forces

were at work here.”

Mulder looked up sharply. “You’re asking if I think the consortium might be

involved?”

“You tell me. They’ve experimented on unsuspecting individuals before. Bees

carrying smallpox, rocks with black oil — ”

“I know what you’re saying, sir, and it’s definitely a possibility. But I don’t want to

make any hasty assumptions just yet. From what I see here, three of the nine

suspects were killed by police. Have there been autopsies performed?”

“Only on the first suspect, Rossman. I think the medical examiner’s report is in the

back of the file. The other two deaths just happened yesterday.”

“I’d like Scully to take a look at that ME’s report and maybe see if she can perform

the other autopsies. She knows what to look for, if there are other forces at work.”

The bodies of the two other attackers arrived late in the day. Mulder had spent most

of Sunday on the phone to the attackers family members who could be reached. No

one had a clue as to why the individuals became aggravated enough to harm others.

The case was baffling in its almost consistent lack of clues.

Scully shuffled in and dropped into her chair opposite Mulder’s desk. “I’m

exhausted,” she said with a tired sigh.

He got up from his chair and went over to gently massage her neck and back. “I

bet. Not the way I wanted to spend Sunday afternoon with basketball in full swing,

that’s for sure. But did you find anything?”

“Anything useful? No. But the tox screens won’t be back until tomorrow morning.”

“So you didn’t find any chips, anomalous pieces of metal, big signs saying ‘this is

why they did it’, — nothing?”

“Mulder, these people, including the one from earlier in the week, were as different

as three people can get. There were no chips in their necks, gums or abdomen, no

pieces of scored metal. To be honest, there was nothing to link them at all.”

He pulled on his lip. “A toxin? A poison?”

“Possible. But as I said, we won’t find out until tomorrow. And,” she said, looking

askance at the watch on his arm, “we only have 9 hours until we have to be back

here and I haven’t done our laundry. So unless you want to wear your tuxedo shirt

under a suit again this week — ”

“That was only once, Scully and no one noticed,” he interjected.

” — we better head home. I’ll toss everything in the wash and we can set the alarm

and I’ll get it in the dryer an hour before work.”

3605 N Street NW

Washington, DC

February 13, 2006 5:45 am

Scully crawled out of bed and headed for the laundry room, noticing the light under

the door to the office as she crept down the hall. Mulder had been up all night, from

the looks of things. After moving over the clothes, assuring that at least they would

‘appear’ presentable at work, she went back upstairs and slipped into the room

where her partner was slouched over the desk, head on his arms.

“Mulder,” she called softly as she rubbed his back. “C’mon. You can stretch out for

a few minutes before work.”

Slowly he stretched and sat upright. “Whattimizit?” he asked around a jaw-cracking

yawn.

“Almost six. You can sleep for an hour.”

“Or we can do other things for an hour,” he suggested, wiggling his eyebrows at her.

But before she could answer, he yawned again, his whole body trembling with the

force of it.

“I think we better hold that thought until you get some sleep,” she said gently

teasing him. “C’mon, we can snuggle until the second alarm goes off.”

“Are we really that old, Scully, that you just topped my suggestion?” he whined,

following her into the bedroom. He pulled off his jeans and tee shirt, left his boxers

on and crawled in to bed. “Get in here quick, I’m cold,” he ordered.

“We aren’t that old, Mulder. You’re just that tired. Did you find anything, or was it a

wasted night?” She tossed her robe to the chair next to the bed and wiggled under

the covers.

“Not being with you was a waste, but I actually found something that might be

useful,” he said, pulling her close. “Six of the nine attackers have recently been in

our fair city.”

She pulled back to look at him. “Washington? Why were they here?”

“Some business, a couple winter vacations — bring the kids to the capitol kind of

thing. They weren’t here at the same time, but quite frankly, it’s the only link I

could find.” He yawned again and she felt his arms slip from their hold around her

waist.

“Sleep now, G-man,” she whispered, kissing his nose. “We’ll figure it out when the

sun’s up.”

Hoover Building

9:45 am

They ended up oversleeping the alarm, but only by half an hour. Showered,

changed and in the office, Scully went first to the fax machine, where she found the

results from the blood tests on the three victims.

“What was it, Scully? Some exotic poison? LSDM? Something I can hang my hat

on?” Mulder asked, peering over her shoulder.

“I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, love, but there is nothing in the tox screen at

all. No sign of any toxin or poison, and quite frankly, not even abnormal levels of

adrenaline. Although this is interesting.” She tapped her finger against a line of

numbers.

“Don’t do this, Scully. You know I hate it when you get all ‘Doctor’ on me.” She

gave him a sideways glare. “You know, ‘aheming’ and keeping me in the dark! Spit

it out!”

“OK,” she said haughtily. “Their white blood count is abnormally high,” she said,

handing him the papers.

“Which would mean — what? An infection, the flu, a cold?”

“Possibly. But Mulder, you asked me if there was anything unusual. That’s all I

could find.”

“Was it equally high in all three bodies?”

“No. And without further testing, it could be anything. You’re right, it could be a

cold, or the flu or any number of other ailments.”

“Scully, this is gonna sound really weird — ”

“How you can say that with a straight face, I’ll never know,” she muttered.

“ANYWAY,” he said loudly over her snide comment, “would you check the hospitals

where the other attackers are being held and see if they have a similar result in their

blood work?”

“That was my next phone call. Are you going to tell Skinner about the DC

connection?”

“I’m on my way up now. I was hoping for better news from the tox screen, but at

least we’re getting something.”

“Mulder, do you really think it’s a conspiracy at work here?” she asked as he headed

toward the door.

He stopped and turned back to look at her, his expression perplexed. “I don’t know,

Scully. At first it sure sounded like it, but now — I just don’t know.”

Skinner had more bad news when Mulder arrived at the Assistant Director’s office.

“Three more cases, this time we have a domestic violence charge in the mix,”

Skinner said, shoving the file folders across his desk so that Mulder had to lunge to

grab them before they skittered to the floor.

“We might have found a connection,” Mulder said absently as he scanned the pages

of each folder.

“What?”

“Six of the attackers had been on trips to DC within three weeks of the attacks.”

“That would point to those ‘other forces’, wouldn’t it?” Skinner asked, leaning

forward with interest.

“Not necessarily. Plus, Scully found that each of the three dead assailants had high

white blood counts.”

“I assume — ”

“She’s calling the hospitals where the others are being held as we speak. We’ll know

more this afternoon. Also, she’s going to see if she can determine the cause for the

elevated counts in the bodies.”

“Mulder, I don’t have to tell you that this is of the utmost importance. Those three

files I just gave you came in over night. I suspect more may be on the way here

today. If this is a biological weapon of some kind, I need to know immediately.

Should I be bringing in the Terrorism Task Force?”

Mulder looked at his superior with a lost expression on his face. “Sir, I realize what

you’re saying, but I just can’t make that determination yet. Aside from the trip here

and the blood tests, we have no way to connect these people. Let me dig some

more this afternoon and tonight.”

Skinner nodded reluctantly. “I can give you today. But Mulder, if we get more

cases, I’ll have to call in the big guns.”

“I understand, sir,” Mulder said rising from his seat.

Hoover Basement

5:30 pm

“Yes, Dr. Hanson, I really appreciate the call back. I was wondering if you had done

blood tests on . . . ” Scully consulted the paper on her desk, “Rachel Anderson?”

She tapped her pencil lightly on the blotter. “Yes, I’m still here. You did? Did you

test further to determine the possible cause? No, I understand. Yes, thank you for

your help.”

“Any luck?” Mulder asked, leaning back in his chair.

“Not much. Dr. Hanson in Melbourne, Florida did further testing on his patient,

Rachel Anderson — she’s the Sunday School teacher who attacked the pastor of her

church during services yesterday — her white blood count was quite high but he said

the infection was unknown. It’s the same answer I’ve gotten all day.” She sighed

deeply and rubbed the back of her neck. “Maybe Skinner’s right. If this is

consortium work, we wouldn’t be able to find the cause.”

“But they usually try to keep their experiments closer together, Scully. Like the

leper colony and the bees — ” He stopped short, he hadn’t discussed the case of

smallpox carrying bees that Skinner had stumbled onto when she was sick with

cancer and he wasn’t sure he wanted to get in to it. “I just don’t think it feels like

them.”

She shook her head and tossed her pencil in the general direction of her pencil

holder. “Then we’re at a standstill.”

“Let me see what you got out of the other doctors,” Mulder offered.

Tiredly, she handed him the set of papers. “I’m going to make another pot of

coffee.” When she returned, he was staring at one report with a puzzled expression.

“What did you find?”

“This doctor told you he thought the patient might have had an allergic reaction,”

Mulder said, handing her the paper again.

She read silently for a moment. “Yes, apparently Brian Mulligan had consumed a

large amount of chocolate the night before he became aggressive. His wife said he’d

had stomach cramps for hours before falling asleep, but when he woke up, he

appeared perfectly normal.”

“Up until he used a shopping cart as a battering ram at the local Ace Hardware,”

Mulder noted, pulling absently on his lip. “Scully, is there anyway to find out what

the assailants ate in the 24 hours before their attacks?”

Her eyes widened. “Mulder, that would be — nearly impossible! In many cases, the

individuals are heavily sedated, so they can’t be interviewed. Unless they were

married and their spouses kept tabs on what they ate — ”

“But could we at least try?” he asked innocently.

“Tonight?” she winced.

“No time like the present,” he shot back. “Please?”

She sighed. “I’ll see what I can do. But if you really want that information, I’m not

doing this alone. Here, you get half the list!”

At 9 o’clock, they called it a night. Mulder pulled on his jacket and overcoat, sticking

his hand in his pocket to locate his keys. It was then he found the claim ticket for

Scully’s watch. “Shit,” he muttered.

“Did you say something?” Scully asked, zipping the case on her laptop.

“No, nothing. Something I have to do tomorrow,” he covered.

“So, any chance I’ll get my Valentine’s present early,” she asked with a cheshire cat

grin.

“You’re definitely going to get something . . . early tomorrow morning,” he smiled in

return. “Just be sure you don’t scratch or dent it — it’s not refundable.”

3605 N Street NW

Washington DC

Valentine’s Day 7:30 am

It had been a good morning and it was only half past 7 o’clock. Mulder couldn’t wipe

the grin off his face as he finished shaving and Scully stopped on her way into the

shower to pinch his butt. How had he managed to ignore such a perfect holiday all

those lonely years of his life?

He hurried down to the kitchen and popped two pieces of whole wheat bread into the

toaster. The coffee maker had done its job and the pot was filled, giving off a

heavenly aroma. While waiting for the toast, Mulder sliced a grapefruit in half and

placed the halves in two cereal bowls. After buttering the toast, he put each piece

on a paper napkin and carried the toast and grapefruit into the dining room. Another

trip for utensils and coffee cups and his Valentine’s breakfast was complete. Finally,

he brought the foil-covered heart shaped box of chocolates out of its hiding place on

the top shelf of the kitchen cabinet and waited for Scully to arrive.

“Grapefruit, whole wheat — and not a Corn Pop in sight? This must be a holiday,”

she said, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek as he sat cutting his fruit into

sections and ladling at least a quarter cup of sugar onto the citrus.

“All for you,” he said with a smile. “After my Valentine’s Day present this morning,

you need the energy,” he added. “We both do,” he corrected himself under his

breath.

“My box of chocolates,” she exclaimed, opening up the lid and peering inside. “May I

have one now?”

“Grapefruit and chocolate? I don’t think that’s going to make it on the Food Network

any time soon,” he warned.

“You’re probably right. Besides, if I save them, maybe someone will be coerced into

feeding them to me later tonight,” she said coyly.

“If you’re looking for volunteers for that duty, don’t ask Skinner. I’ve heard he’s a

pig for chocolate.” He ducked her swat at his behind as he got up to get another cup

of coffee.

She looked over her selections. “It won’t hurt if I sneak a couple with me when we

head to the office,” she whispered to the box. Picking carefully, she chose three of

the plumpest bon bons, wrapped them in a paper napkin and secreted them in her

pocket.

Hoover Building

10:45 am

They had just made it to the office at 8 when Skinner called. There had been five

more attacks in the previous 12 hours. Scully was tapped to perform three

autopsies. With a quick peck on Mulder’s cheek, she headed out to the morgue at

Quantico, leaving her partner to wade through the listing of all foods consumed by

the earlier assailants.

By mid morning, he’d picked up a pattern. At first, he thought it was just a

subconscious correlation resulting from all the Valentine’s festivities in the office and

on the radio on the way to work. But after reading over the stomach contents of the

autopsies, he knew he’d stumbled on part of the answer.

FBI Academy and Labs

Quantico, Virginia

1:30 pm

She felt itchy. All over. Her clothes were too tight, the very air brushing her skin

was rough and scaly. And that damned buzzing in her ear was about to drive her

crazy!

She’d only gone over to the cafeteria for a cup of coffee. Why was everyone staring

at her? They were mumbling about her behind her back as she stood in line at the

cash register. What the hell were they talking about?

The guy in the brown suit — he was staring at her. Had she seen him before? But

the man she thought he looked like was dead. Now he was back? It wouldn’t be the

first time that had happened.

Trapped! He was blocking her way to the door. She had to do something and fast!

Her gun —

Strong arms reached around her, stopping her from pulling her weapon. She fought

her attacker but his embrace wasn’t bruising, it was tender and he kept a running

monologue in her ear.

“No, Scully. No. It’s OK. You’re safe. I’ve got you. I’ve got you and I won’t let

anyone hurt you.”

As she struggled, both physically and mentally through the fog, she recognized that

voice. “Mulder?” she asked, just before the darkness engulfed her.

Northeast Georgetown Medical Center

9:15 pm

When she opened her eyes, he was smiling down at her.

“Good morning, starshine,” he quipped, lowering the bedrail so he could sit beside

her and take her hand. “How are you feeling?”

Scully closed her eyes and took a silent inventory. “My head is killing me. My eyes

are burning. Do I have a fever?”

“A low grade one, yes,” Mulder replied. “You have an infection. The doctor wants

you to stay put for a day, let the antibiotics get a head start. Then I can take you

home.”

“Mulder, what the hell happened?” she demanded, suddenly remembering her fear in

the cafeteria.

“It’s OK, relax,” he soothed, and pushed her gently back against the pillows. “I

poisoned you.”

“You what?!” she challenged.

“Well, I didn’t do it on purpose,” he balked. “The chocolates I got you for Valentine’s

Day had an extra surprise — a previously unknown bacteria that induces paranoia

and aggression in some individuals. Apparently only the cherry cream ones are the

problem, but I tossed the whole box. And I called your mom and Tara. They’re

getting flowers to replace the candy. The arrangements will be delivered tomorrow –

– I couldn’t find a florist who wasn’t booked up this afternoon.”

“Mulder, the chocolates? I don’t understand.”

He sighed and shrugged. “I bought your chocolates at a little store on Wisconsin

Avenue. The owner, Mr. Chekov — distant relation to the writer but no connection to

the character on the original Star Trek — likes to make candy the old fashioned way,

the way they did it back in the old country.”

“Old country?”

“One of the Baltic States, apparently. Anyway, he’s had a horrible time finding

natural cherry flavoring that really tastes like he remembers from his childhood. So

he found a supplier back in the old country. Unfortunately, the supplier also likes to

do things the old fashioned way, and somehow the natural cherry got contaminated

with this bacteria — ”

“Why does this sound frighteningly like a tattoo incident from several years ago?”

she muttered.

“Suffice it to say, this was a little more widespread. Mr. Chekov had just started a

website last fall and we had quite a time tracking down all the potential victims.”

“Did everyone who ate the cherry creams go — ” She left the word ‘crazy’ off the

sentence, it was just too close to home.

“Not everyone. Or rather some people had stronger reactions than others. But we

did manage to get hold of everyone. He does almost all of his business with credit

cards, thank heavens. Skinner had all the whole VCU tracking down the phone

numbers from the credit card receipts. The District Department of Public Health is

checking out his store but if it’s clear that it was just the one ingredient, he’ll

probably get off with a warning.”

“People died, Mulder,” she said sadly.

He looked contrite. “I know. Mr. Chekov is really upset about it. But it only

heightened paranoia, Scully. I know that’s no excuse — ”

“Are you saying I’m paranoid, Mulder?” she asked, raising an eyebrow in defiance.

“So, since I totally botched the candy part of Valentines, and the lab rats at Quantico

decided to get you flowers,” he said, nodding to the tasteful display of cut flowers

and balloons on the windowsill, “you are still owed a present.”

“I thought you said I couldn’t go home till tomorrow, Mulder,” she said flirtatiously.

“I’m not talking about that present,” he replied. He reached into his pocket and

withdrew a long, thin velvet box. “Scully, will you be my Valentine?” he asked with a

boyish gleam to his eyes.

“I don’t know. I’ll have to check my social calendar,” she answered, but held her

hand out for the box. “What did you do, Mulder?”

He laughed out loud. “After all this, how can you ask me that?” He gazed at her as

she gingerly opened the box.

“Oh, Mulder, it’s beautiful!” She took the watch out, carefully examining it. She

turned it over in her hand and stared at the inscription on the back.

“The truth is in us,” she recited softly, tears welling in her eyes.

“Your last one — ” he started to speak, but she hushed him with one finger to his

lips.

“It’s beautiful. You out did yourself, again. Thank you.” She held it out for him to

fasten onto her wrist. She admired it for a while and then protectively unclasped it

and handed it to him. “You should take it home with you, I don’t want to tempt fate

by leaving it here all night.”

“Who said I was leaving,” he countered. Fastening the watch to her wrist again he

carefully slid her over and laid down next to her, holding her close.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, my love,” he whispered. She snuggled into his embrace and

the both fell fast asleep.

The End

Credit Due: To my son Patrick, who thought up the idea of the bacteria that caused

aggression and paranoia. He also dreamed up the title for the story. His original

idea was a chocolate monster that ate people, but we’ll save the case for next year.

Colonial Modern

Author: Martin Ross

Rating: PG-13

Category: Holiday/humor

Summary: Someone’s killing the first families of Cobbler’s Knob, and

Mulder and Scully may be conducting their own witch hunt

E-mail: rossprag@fgi.net

Disclaimer: Chris Carter made ‘em. I’m borrowing ‘em.

Cobbler’s Knob, Mass.

12:46 p.m.

“You know,” Scully sighed, “when you suggested giving me a goose this

morning, I was expecting some slimy experience that would leave me

feeling queasy and dirty. But I had no idea.”

Mulder cleaned the last shreds of meat from the breastbone of their shared

fowl. “You have no sense of history, Scully. This is what our forefathers

used before Metamucil.” The agent leaned back and discreetly eyed a

comely wench in 17th century garb, chomping on a wad of Juicy Fruit.

“Look, I’ll admit it’s a little gamy, but I felt bad about you probably

having to miss Thanksgiving with your mom. I thought you’d enjoy the

real deal — a genuine New England Thanksgiving meal.”

Scully selected a hoe cake from her heavily laden plate and thumped it

against the thick plank table. “And this, I suppose, was how we eradicated

the local Wampanoags?” She frowned and jerked her head toward their

waitress. “Well, at least now I know where they got the ‘ho’ in hoe cake.”

Mulder coughed, shifting in his seat. “Chief Scarborough recommended

the place — said it was ‘the most authentic colonial experience’ around.”

“So was small pox, Mulder. Did one of my cranberries just move?”

“Hey, there, folks,” a plumply pink man in a blue-on-blue uniform called

from across the quaint dining room, drawing glances from the few off-

season tourists — hard-core history buffs and K-Mart-clad families looking

to see New England on the cheap. Chief Chet Scarborough dropped into

an antique chair, threatening centuries of preservation with his

considerable girth. “Sorry — had a bit of a row over t’the high school.

Well, was it everything I told you?”

“And more,” Scully assured him, a recalcitrant chunk of goose finally

dislodging in her throat.

“Wonderful,” the cop grinned. He turned, grunting. “Say, Megan, you

want to get Felix to rustle me up a bacon cheeseburger? That’s a girl. So,

what’d you make of those files I FAXed you? Think we got us a genuine

serial killer here?”

It came out “sill killa heah,” and it took Mulder a second to translate. “Ah,

yes, Chief, I do. There are several points of similarity between the

murders, not the least of which is the clear indication that the killer was

familiar with his or her victims’ lives and daily routines. The third victim –

– Mr. Cavanagh…”

“President at the Commonwealth New England Bank. Fine fella, Greg —

one of the most important families in town, but he ate lunch every day

with the reg’lar folks and helped man the Optimists sweet corn booth

every fall festival.”

“Ah, yeah. Well, the killer managed to get past an armed, top-of-the-line

home security system, slipped upstairs, smothered Mr. Cavanagh in his

sleep, and left, again, without tripping the alarm.

“Then take Arlene Kimball, victim number five. She ran the clothes shop

down the street, right? Working late in the office behind the shop,

strangled behind her desk. Your deputy said the front shop door had

already been locked for the night, and the back door was unlocked.”

“Ayyup, that would be correct. Killer came in through the back. No doubt

surprised Arlene.”

“You tried that back door, Chief? Steel-reinforced, double-bolt, and hinges

that are rustier than my worst pickup line.”

“Worst?” Scully murmured.

“My point,” Mulder said evenly, “is that there’s no way our killer snuck

up on Ms. Kimball without about a gallon of WD-40. But the photos your

tech took at the scene have her pulled up to her computer. You’d agree a

woman alone at night in a shop that had been burglarized twice — right? —

wouldn’t have left the alley door sitting wide open. It would appear she let

someone in — someone she was comfortable enough with to chat with as

she worked.”

“Makes a stunning amount of sense,” Chief Scarborough smiled.

“And your first victim — at least according to your theory — was poisoned

with his own heart medicine.”

“Asa Randolph. Iced tea was loaded with the stuff, which he kept locked

up in his bedroom. Lucky thing Valerie the dispatcher had seen a story

like that on C.S.I. the week before, or we mighta wrote it off as an

accident or suicide.”

“Lucky thing,” Scully sighed. “Chief, we appear to have five homicides

with five widely varying methods of murder. If they are somehow related,

do you at least have some notion as to the motive?”

“Why, sure,” the policeman said as he lustfully greeted the cheeseburger

the gum-snapping Pilgrim set before him. “Fella’s a whack job.”

“Check, please,” Scully called to Juicy Fruit.

Mulder held up a hand with a diplomatic grimace. “I think that what my

partner’s trying to say is that if this is the work of a single individual, that

person’s showed a considerable amount of cunning. I don’t think she

believes a ‘whack job’ could have committed these murders.”

Scully’s brow arched at the volumes she apparently had spoken with two

words.

“I actually agree we’re looking at a lone killer,” he continued. “I’m just

not convinced we’re talking about a serial killer. Granted, the victims

don’t seem to fit any set profile — Randolph was an 80-year-old male

hermit, Kelly Grant a 16-year-old fast food worker, Greg Cavanagh a

locally prominent 52-year-old, Pete Howe a mechanic at the local Midas

Muffler, and Arlene Kimball, a 37-year-old businesswoman. At first

blush, it would all seem random.

“But the fact that the murderer varied his – or her – murder method

suggests premeditation, planning. Most serial killers I’ve dealt with either

are driven irrationally by strong emotion or are exhibitionists – they want

to publicize their crimes. This killer’s obviously trying to escape notice.

He’s smart.”

“Obviously, not too smart,” Scully murmured, sipping her Bottomless

Cornucopia of Coffee. “I mean, five murders in three weeks, in a village

of what, 16,000? That’s a higher murder rate than Detroit or Cabot Cove

when Jessica Fletcher’s in town.”

“Seventeen thousand, give or take,” Chief Scarborough amended proudly

through a mouthful of beef. “Lotta new housing ever since they drained

the bogs west of town couple of years back.”

Mulder nodded patiently. “OK, so maybe he’s no mastermind. But I do

think that if we look closely enough, we’ll find a pattern in these killings.”

The chief settled back. “So, you think you can help us? We’re up to our

eyeballs these days. The tourists – what tourists there are these days – tend

to flock around here every Thanksgiving time, and more than a few tend to

go a little heavy on the grog. And we’ve had a few break-ins at the zoo,

took off with a couple of lizards. We could use the expert opinion of one

of the FBI’s top profilers.”

“Hey,” Mulder shrugged modestly.

“Check!” Scully called.

**

“What’s your damage?” Mulder grunted as the chief’s cruiser left the curb.

The smell of the day’s catch blew in from the bay a few blocks away, and

he belched.

“Twenty-four hours, Mulder,” Scully snapped, stalking down Main Street.

An elderly couple sidestepped her warily, tote bags swinging. “You’ve got

a day for this little post-goose chase, and then we’re blowing this quaint

historical popsicle stand. I missed Thanksgiving last year chasing some

serial psycho and a horde of feral turkeys, and I don’t intend to miss

another. Twenty-four hours.”

“Buzz kill,” Mulder muttered.

Scully whirled. “What?”

“I wonder why he must kill, ah, these people,” her partner backpedaled.

“C’mon, Mulder, you’re reaching. This Asa Randolph was 80 – he

probably mistook his heart medication for Splenda, or maybe he pulled a

Kevorkian. Kelly Grant was strangled on her way home — probably a

mugging or an attempted assault. Peter Howe was pummeled with a metric

wrench – again, an attempted robbery gone woefully wrong. I will

concede that there is reason to suspect premeditation in the Kimball and

Cavanagh murders. But if you’re suggesting we’re dealing with a pattern

killer, the only pattern I can see here is a bunch of local WASPs getting

swatted.”

Mulder stopped dead on the sidewalk, and a street performer in colonial

togs nearly collided with him. “Asshole,” the pilgrim growled, huffing

around him.

Scully had continued to rant without noticing her partner’s sudden trance,

drawing stares from the villagers. Now, 30 feet beyond him, she turned.

She strode briskly back. “Mulder? Mulder?” Then, as an omniscient smile

formed on his lips, it hit her. “Ah, crap. What did I say?”

**

“Yes,” Lavinia Wright whispered. “Every one of ’em. Don’t know why

that hadn’t occurred to me.”

Mulder glanced triumphantly at his partner, who contemplated planting

one of her fashionable pumps in a dark, irretrievable location.

Cobbler’s Knob’s library director and official genealogist detected the

hostility in Scully’s glare, and regarded her with textbook librarian

sternness from behind her 115-year-old white-washed desk. “Sixteen

twenty-seven, seven years after the founding of the Plimouth Colony.

Thirty-nine men, thirty-six women, and 14 children.”

“Fleeing Mother England’s oppressive yolk,” Mulder finished. He turned

to Scully. “You said it — the victims were a group of white Anglo-Saxon

Protestants. Just like the good folks who founded most of New England.

Chief Scarborough even mentioned Greg Cavanagh’s pedigree. All five

were descended from Cobbler’s Knob’s founding families. There’s your

pattern.”

“Agent, could you please lower your tone?” Ms. Wright admonished.

“The patrons.”

Scully turned to survey the “patrons.” A single senior was slumped in a

wooden chair in the Periodicals “section,” a copy of Elle gripped in his

gray hands. His bandsaw-like snoring was the only vital sign Scully could

discern.

“Let me get this straight,” she said, crossing her arms. “Someone is killing

the great-great-great- what? – great-great-great-grandchildren of a bunch

of pilgrims? That’s taking delayed gratification to new extremes.”

Mulder turned to Ms. Wright. “Can you think of any reason anyone here

in town might have it in for the founding families? Any old blood feuds?

A centuries-old grudge come to fruition.”

“I’m sure I wouldn’t know,” Lavinia Wright purred, as if Mulder had

asked her to interlibrary the latest Hustler Forum. “The settlers who

founded this colony were good, fine Christian folk.” She snatched a small,

laminated booklet from the counter at Scully’s elbow. “Here, you can read

all about them, and then you’ll understand how shameful your allegations

are.”

Mulder studied the computer-printed cover of the cheap publication. “The

History and Lineage of Cobbler’s Knob, Massachusetts. By, oh my

goodness, Lavinia Wright.”

The librarian beamed. Mulder found it chilling. “My labor of love. The

definitive history of our village.”

“No doubt.” Mulder slipped the booklet into his jacket pocket, and Ms.

Wright extended a bird-like palm.

“$16.95,” she stated.

**

“C’mon, c’mon,” Mulder begged as Scully searched her bag for the key.

Scully jammed the old-fashioned brass key into the hotel lock and turned

it peevishly. “If you think a little afternoon delight is going to make up for

dragging… Hey!”

Mulder had shouldered past and was now punching up his Windows.

“Wrong laptop,” she mumbled.

“Where’s the high-speed connection?” her partner demanded, peering

under the antique work desk next to the bed, then under the bed.

“Cobbler’s Knob, Mulder? You’ll have to use the regular phone jack.”

Scully flopped onto the bed as Mulder negotiated an Internet connection

and began Googling furiously.

“Ah ha!” he finally exclaimed.

“Good for me, too,” Scully said, climbing off the down mattress. “What’s

up?”

He nodded toward the screen, where a cluster of angry pilgrims was

pointing at a cowering woman. “Cobbler’s Knob confidential – dirty

laundry, and I don’t mean Don Henley. The Salem Witch Trials were the

most notorious example of 17th Century mob mania, but apparently, the

good settlers of Cobbler’s Knob also knew how to party like it was 1699.

Well, 1691, to be precise. That’s when Alice Moody was brought up on

charges of being a witch for her periodic trances and spells of cursing.

This was after the corn crop failed, of course.”

“Of course,” Scully muttered. “Solid case.”

“Gave her due process,” Mulder protested. “Put her in a tub of water with

weights to see if she was a witch. Good news is, she passed with flying

colors. Bad news is, ….”

“Edward Cavanagh,” Scully breathed, peering over his shoulder. “The

man who brought the charges. And one of the panel of magistrates at her

trial was Nathaniel Kimball.”

Mulder tapped the monitor. “And a woman named Susannah Howe

testified that Moody was talking to her cat and several of the local dogs.

And to think they let her off with the tub.”

Scully stood up. “Great. A motive. You get a warrant, I’ll see if Lavinia

the Librarian has a copy of Harry Potter.”

**

“Ee-yep,” Chief Scarborough nodded reluctantly, walking up Gregory

Cavanagh’s cobbled walk between the agents. “Not exactly Monicagate or

anything. Happened all over Massachusetts back then. Matter of fact, one

of the selectmen suggested we hold mock witch trials for the tourists,

special effects and all. Fellas didn’t go for it, and we got stuck for a couple

gross of corn brooms and ‘You’ll be bewitched by Cobbler’s Knob’

bumper stickers.’ Why? You think that’s got something to do with these

killings?”

Mulder shrugged as they ascended the Cavanaghs’ limestone steps. “I

don’t know yet, but it is the only apparent link between the victims.” He

looked for a doorbell, then settled for the huge lion’s head knocker.

A handsome, silver-haired woman in a black dress answered, glancing

curiously at the chief. “Chester.”

“Dora. Sorry to bother you at this time of loss, but we got a couple of FBI

agents would like to look at the crime scene.”

The widow Cavanagh blinked. “Well, I suppose that would be fine. Please

come in. Would you all like some chamomile tea? I was just fixing a pot

up.”

“Don’t go to any trouble on our account, Dora,” the chief insisted, sidling

past her. “Agents, Greg’s room’s up the staircase there…”

“Ah, excuse me, Chief, Mrs. Cavanagh,” Mulder began, peering back

toward the dining room. “I really would just like to look at the kitchen.”

The chief frowned at Scully as her partner wandered through the house.

Scully shrugged hopelessly. After a beat, they and Mrs. Cavanagh trailed

Mulder to a bright, decorative kitchen. He was kneeling beside the back

door, holding up a plastic ball. He shook the ball, and it jingled jauntily.

“Mulder, I’ll take you to Petco when we get home,” Scully offered.

He beamed up, beatifically. “Scully, I found how our killer got past the

alarm system.”

“The back door’s wired, too, Agent,” Dora Cavanagh murmured.

“Yeah,” Mulder said, “but every locked room murder has a loophole

somewhere.”

As if on cue, the quartet heard a loud mewling from beyond the door.

Mulder stepped aside, and a panel within the door gave way. An orange,

whiskered head pushed through, glaring at the group. The cat growled as it

slipped through the pet door and past the agent.

“See?” Mulder sang.

**

“I don’t want to second-guess the FBI, specially seeing as how I asked you

here and all,” Chief Scarborough drawled as he cruised back toward Main.

“But maybe you ought to explain this theory of yours to me.”

“Yeah, Mulder,” Scully chimed in from the backseat. “Why don’t you

explain your theory?”

“Not yet,” Mulder said. “Chief, the zoo open today?”

“The zoo?” the cop squeaked.

“The zoo. I need to corroborate a few things. Tell me a little more about

this zoo break-in the other night.”

“Okayy,” the chief sighed, deciding to roll with it. “About 11 p.m. or so,

Jack Winthorne, night zoo guard for the Parks Department, spots

somebody roaming around near the badger pen. Said the fella had a big

trash bag with something in it over his shoulder. Called out, and Jack

swears he pulled a weapon, cause he drew his own and got off a nice

square shot. Burglar fella screamed something and went down. Jack was

scared he’d killed the fella, cause he wasn’t moving, but by the time he got

to where he’d fell, the fella was gone with his bag, and all that was left

was a puddle of blood. A big puddle. Checked all the area hospitals, but

nobody’s showed up. Fella took a bullet for a couple of lizards.”

Scully leaned against Scarborough’s headrest. “Have you analyzed the

blood yet?”

“Figured we’d find some fella with a hole in ‘im, and then match it up to

‘im,” he admitted. “Department budget’s a mite tight this fiscal year. And

here, folks, is the Cobbler’s Knob Municipal Zoo in all the glory.”

The curator was a thin, leathery sixty-something man modeling the latest

in safari wear and sporting a perpetual look of indignity.

“Weren’t lizards, for crying out loud,” the zookeeper muttered as he

ushered his guests into a lab-like room behind a cougar’s den. Urine and

feces melded into a piquant perfume. “Lizards are reptiles, Chet. These

were amphibians. Reptiles are land animals; amphibians develop from

gilled larvae into air breathers. How you ever got to be chief of police…”

“So the missing animals were, what, salamanders?” Mulder inquired.

“God’s sake, no,” the curator huffed, shoving a scoop into a pail of brown

nuggets. “Notophthalmus viridescens. Red-eyed newt. Used to be lousy

with ’em around here. The numbers started dropping a few years ago, and

then the developers drained all the marshes. Kept a couple of three or four

on display just to remind folks of the biodiversity.”

“And that’s all your intruder took?”

“All?” The leathery man appeared ready to fly into another snit, but the

lab door swung open and a huge bald head peeked in.

“Chief?” the burly uniformed man inquired in an incongruously high

voice.

“Jack.” Scarborough walked over and slapped the guard on a beefy

shoulder. “Like you to meet Agents Mulder and Scully. They’re FBI.”

“Wow.” Jack Winthorne nodded, trying to appear impressed. “I ain’t in

trouble over that fella, am I?”

“Now, Jack, we all know you were doing what the city pays you for. The

agents here just want to ask you a question or so.”

“Mr. Winthorne,” Mulder began. “You say you shot the suspect?”

“Yup,” Jack nodded eagerly. “Left enough blood to paint a barn.”

“You sure? You couldn’t have just winged him, maybe?”

The guard squared his shoulders. “Mister, I’ve won three Eastern

Massachusetts marksman trophies the last five years. When I saw that fella

draw on me, I wasn’t screwing around. I plugged him good and square.”

“You told the deputies this man yelled something when you shot him.”

The zoo guard looked sheepishly to Chief Scarborough. “Well, that was

kinda odd, you know. At the time, I’m pretty sure what the fella said, but

now, it don’t seem to make sense. It was like in golf, you know?”

“Jack?” Chief Scarborough prodded.

“Okay. I shot him, he spun around, and he yelled, ‘FORE!'”

“And you’re the one that got the hole in one,” Mulder tsked. He scanned

the blank faces around him. “Guess it loses something if you’re not Jack

Webb.”

**

Since lunch, Mary Ellen Slunecke had changed from pilgrim garb into hip-

hugging jeans and a torso-friendly tank top and from Juicy Fruit to a pack

of Virginia Slims. The waitress held tightly to her cigarette outside the

Cobbler’s Tap, which at 7:20 was blasting low-strength speed metal.

“Yeah, I guess you could say he was losing it,” she drawled. “He was an

OK old dude, but half the time lately, I’d have to chase him down to give

him his pipe or his paper or one time even his coat, and this was like

February, OK?”

“Mary Ellen, you sure you don’t want to grab your coat from inside?”

Chief Scarborough asked paternally. She waved the invitation away with a

plume of blue smoke.

“Did you ever seen him take medication with his meals?” Scully inquired,

shivering even in her dense wool overcoat.

“His heart shit, yeah,” Slunecke nodded. “Had to take it with water, and

half the time, I had to remind him to take it at all. He was a sweetie, even

if he was kind of an old hermit. Tipped OK for an old dude, too. Sooo,

why did you ask me all that other shit? I don’t want to get anybody in

trouble.”

“Not a big deal,” Mulder grinned. “Thanks for talking to us. You better get

inside now — you look pretty chilly.”

For the first time, Mary Ellen broke into a sweet smile. “Yeah, I noticed

you noticed.”

Mulder looked away quickly, avoiding Scully’s eyes.

**

“You want a warrant for what?” Judge Anselm Slocum rumbled, tugging

his cardigan sweater tighter over his skeletal frame. The magistrate was

holding court with the chief and the agents at The Hob-Knobber, a steak

knife substituting for his customary gavel.

Scarborough coughed. Mulder took the ball. “Uh, sir, we believe this

individual may have stolen three red-eyed newts from the city zoo and

could be implicated in the recent spate of homicides here in town.”

“Spate,” the judge murmured, sawing into his New York strip. “You’re an

officious young fella, aren’t you?”

“What they tell me,” Mulder plucked a fry from the judge’s plate and

settled back nonchalantly.

Slocum squinted at him for a moment, then showed yellow teeth. “Go on.”

“We also want to secure some DNA evidence to link this suspect to the

zoo robbery and, hopefully, the murders.”

“What’s your link at this point, Chet? What’s your cause for the warrant?

The chief, son, not you.”

Scarborough chafed in his leather captain’s chair to the strains of Sinatra

filtering through the weeknight crowd. “Well, Agent Mulder here’s put

together a fairly strong circumstantial case against the, er, suspect.”

“Such as?”

The chief fumbled the crime scene photo from inside his uniform jacket

and handed it over. The judge peered at it.

“On the desk there,” Slocum tapped with a talon. “That’s your

circumstantial case? What else you got?”

“Well, ah…” The chief looked to Mulder and Scully for support. The judge

waved them off.

“Ai-yeah, I suspected as much,” Judge Slocum muttered. “Steak’s getting

cold. Shoo.”

**

“You think it’s gonna happen tonight?” the chief asked incredulously,

taking a tug from his coffee in the driver’s seat of the CKPD unit.

“The interval between each murder’s been decreasing incrementally,”

Mulder’s voice drifted from the backseat. Scully had called shotgun this

time. “That’s not unusual in the case of serial killings. Accelerating

adrenalin, anticipation, a desire for swift revenge. Which, I believe, is the

motivation for these murders.”

“The witch thing again?” Scarborough sighed.

“Sort of. But regardless of the motivation, our suspect appears to fit our

MO. MOs, I’d guess I’d have say. First of all, our suspect knew the

victims’ routines fairly intimately. I think the killer was in a position to

learn things about them, that they communicated freely around the

murderer about the most personal matters.

“All of the murders except Pete Howe’s occurred late at night, after 10

p.m. Although that may be the ideal time of day for a killing spree, I

suspect it also was the only convenient time for the killer.”

Down the street, the lights went out. A figure appeared on the street,

walking the opposite direction.

“Here we go,” Scully murmured. “Just stay back. A tail isn’t easy in a

village of 16,000.”

The car crept along, sans lights. “The killer’s almost positively local, and

someone the townspeople trust,” Mulder continued. “Arlene Kimball let

the killer into her shop late at night. Pete Howe appeared to be working on

an engine when he was murdered. And you told me Kelly Grant showed

little sign of having put up any kind of fight with her assailant. And, of

course, the link between the victims–”

“The supposed link,” Scully corrected.

“–would indicate the killer was from the area. And then there was a

common element to several of the crime scenes. It was on Arlene

Kimball’s desk — you and the judge both noticed it, though the killer

somehow missed it. If you blow up the Howe crime scene, you’ll see the

same thing on his tool chest, behind the car Howe was working on.”

“Turning on Seaward,” the chief reported. “Shoot, who is it lives down

there?”

Mulder squinted as the figure disappeared around the corner and the cop

picked up his speed. “You think about it, and it becomes clear. Someone

the townspeople know and like but whose presence normally is ignored or

forgotten. It’s Chesterton’s postman all over.”

“Mr. Nieman down to the Post Office?” Scarborough piped, confused.

“No, I meant the old detective sto– Ah, never mind. Our killer is free to

kill only late at night. Wouldn’t you say the town pretty much closes at

night, Chief?”

“Shops around seven, when the tourists are here, five during the off-

season. Grocery closes at nine. The Walgreen’s and the Denny’s are 24

hours. Tap closes midnight sharp by ordinance, 1 a.m. on the weekends.

Café closes at 10.”

“And that ties in with our crime scene evidence. Nobody thought twice

about that Colonial Café cup on Kimball’s desk, because it was so

commonplace. Same with the soda at Pete Howe’s garage. And it may

explain how Asa Randolph was poisoned. By all accounts, he left his

house pretty much only to buy groceries and have supper at the café. All

other times, he kept his heart medication locked up. Now, it’s unlikely old

Asa would’ve taken his medicine out at the grocery, but he has to have

water with his tablet. Water served up by young Mary Ellen. I think Asa

left his medication at the table the day he died. The killer discovered it and

returned it to him, minus three or four pills no doubt dissolved in a glass of

tea supplied by our good-hearted murderer.”

“Lavinia,” the chief gasped as they turned the corner of Main and

Seaward. “Lavinia Wright. And she’s the great-great-great-something-

granddaughter of one of the original settlers. Aw, jesus pete, I don’t see–

Shit!”

Mulder stopped his hand before it could switch on the light bar. “We need

to check on her, but let’s not risk spooking the killer in case we’re wrong.”

Scarborough nodded anxiously as Scully unholstered her sidearm. “But,

Agent, how’d you come up with, you know? It could have been any one of

10 people work at that café.”

Mulder was silent as the cruiser squealed to a stop before Lavinia Wright’s

cottage. A beacon shone across the grass from the gaping front door, and

Scarborough, Mulder, and Scully jumped from the car.

The town librarian and official genealogist materialized in the doorway,

the front of her housedress scarlet and shiny.

“Call an ambulance!” Scully barked at the chief as she scrambled toward

the frail and bloody old woman. “Ma’am, lay down. We have to get you

stabili–”

“Oh, can the dramatics,” the spinster snapped peevishly, batting at

Scully’s ministering hands. “You gotta catch him — my best carving

knife’s in ‘im.”

“In him?” Scully whispered, examining the soaked but otherwise

undamaged dress.

“Jammed it right between the first and second intercostals, like I learned at

the Y self-defense course. Thought he was dead, but he high-tailed it out

the back while my back was turned. Shouldn’ta got too far.”

Mulder bolted along the side of the house, and as he reached the grassed

alleyway, he spotted the figure limping along.

“Stop! FBI!” the agent yelled. The figure seemed to gain steam.

Mulder came upon the bloody knife about 40 feet away. “Bag this!” he

screamed back to whomever might be listening. His lungs felt like steel

wool, but he started to gain on the fleeing murderer. Then the fleeing

murderer almost got creamed at the alley entrance, by a glistening silver

Airstream RV.

“On…the…ground!” Mulder panted. “Do…it…now!”

The figure turned with a desperate look. He glanced either direction, then

at Mulder’s gun. Then, the killer’s eye took on a gleam of optimism.

“You’re down to four, now,” Mulder warned him. “And I have six bullets.

I guess the question you want to ask yourself, punk, is, do I feel lucky, ?”

The murderer’s shoulders slumped, and he looked confused. “What?”

“Just, just get on the freaking ground, OK, Felix?” Mulder snapped

disgustedly. “Nobody appreciates the classic any more.”

**

“It’s been more than 300 years since Alice Moody was killed,” Mulder

began. He’d asked for 20 minutes alone with the homicidal

cook/busboy/delivery man, and the selectmen had never seen fit to pop for

two-way glass for the department. “Why this long?”

Felix Longworth sat silently at the other end of the conference table, his

hand resting beside a cup of cold coffee. He was a lanky, rail-thin man

with jet-black hair who could’ve been anywhere from a rough-ridden 28 to

a dissipated 50.

“It was Asa, wasn’t it? This has been festering for years — maybe you

contemplated killing their descendants before. But when Asa left that heart

medication on the table you were bussing, it must have seemed like fate.

You took him that spiked tea — you may have been one of the few people

in town he’d have allowed inside his inner sanctum. After that, it seemed

like a mission, a holy crusade.”

Felix picked up the cup and started to take a nervous sip. Mulder slammed

his palm on the table, and the cup jumped.

“Hey,” the cook whined, mocha liquid dripping through his fingers.

Mulder came around the table and perched on the corner a foot from the

suspect. “Arlene Kimball was expecting you with her coke and sandwich.

Pete Howe had called in a delivery — to you, luckily, right? It was the only

killing that took place before the café closed, and the rest of the crew

probably didn’t think about asking where you were going.

“And Greg Kavanagh. That was probably you’re only really brilliant

move. No one would ever guess how you got past that alarm system.”

Felix forgot the mess for a second. He examined Mulder’s face with

interest, with a new fear.

“You’re just unfortunate you got stuck with the craziest bastard in the

Bureau,” Mulder snarled. Then he smiled. “I doubt I’ll ever convince any

prosecutor or jury you got into the Cavanagh house through the cat flap —

although you’re not the first one to be able to manage it. But the DNA

analysis of the blood at the zoo and on Lavinia Wright’s housedress are

pretty compelling evidence.”

Mulder didn’t mention that the blood collected at the zoo had been

declared contaminated with animal blood — a revelation that nonetheless

had seemed to encourage Mulder. The half that was human blood was

Felix’s. The DNA spattered on Lavinia Wright’s dress was pure,

unadulterated Felix.

“You got into the zoo the same way you got into the Cavanaghs, but my

guess is you can’t stay in form for more than a few minutes at a time,

right?”

Felix frowned, but remained silent. The conference room door opened.

“Felix, they screwed up on the fish sandwich — gave me a loaded Big Mac

instead,” the chief said apologetically, sliding the white paper bag across

the table.

“My luck tonight,” the busboy sighed, reaching into the bag and

withdrawing the burger. A trickle of special sauce leaked immediately

down his arm, but he launched full-on into his Mac.

“Agent Mulder, can I see you outside?” Scarborough asked. “Give us a

few moments, OK, Felix?”

“MMPH,” the killer nodded, sending sauce and lettuce shreds flying.

“You took out the napkins, right?” Mulder asked the chief as soon as the

door closed.

“Yep. Don’t suppose you’d care to tell me why.”

“Little theory,” Mulder smiled.

“All RIGHT,” Scully breathed, coming off the wall. “That is it. No more

theorizing, no more coy clue-dropping, Mulder. Spill.”

Mulder backed up a step. “You ever heard of a familiar, Chief?”

“Ah, nope.”

“The familiar is usually a cat or dog that’s been specially trained by a

witch for occult use. According to the Book of Shadows, the witch and its

familiar’s thoughts travel together.”

“O-kay,” Scarborough drawled.

“The presence of a familiar often was used to prosecute witches in Europe

and the colonies — a lot of old women were put to death simply for cat

fancying back in the day. My suspicion is that Alice Moody’s familiar was

given human form, then got stranded between species when his master

flunked her obviously flawed witch test.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Your guys search Felix’s apartment yet?”

“Yup,” the chief nodded, relieved to return to Earth. “Garbage had four

red-eyed newts. Carcasses, that is. He’d, ah, mutilated ’em — taken their

eyes out. That some kind of psychosis or something.?”

“Nah, just sorcery. My guess is Felix has been trying to reverse Alice’s

spell for the last, oh, 300 years or so. Eye of newt is a common ingredient

in potions used in conjunction with incantations. Maybe it’s what gives

him the ability to temporarily shift back into feline form. Felix had a

steady supply of newts until the developers drained the local bog. The zoo

was his last source of amphibian parts.

“I imagine the murders were the culmination of Felix’s growing

frustration. Over the decades, the centuries, he’s somehow managed to

make his way in the human world. Early on, it wasn’t too tough — we

were an agrarian society, and even the industrialization of America

wouldn’t have posed too much of a challenge. Sure, because he didn’t

appear to age, he probably had to keep moving from village to village,

town to town.

“The Information Age must have been his downfall. No personal history,

he couldn’t risk a corporate physical or a drug test — not with that half-

feline DNA you found at the zoo. Eventually, he had to lead a colorless,

faceless life in a quiet, dead-end job. I suspect that — and his natural

homing instinct — must have brought him back to Cobbler’s Knob. And

into the orbit of the descendants of the men and women who’d destroyed

his chance to live a ‘normal’ life.”

Chief Scarborough now merely blinked, weakly. “And, and you’re saying

Felix is immortal? Like a vampire or something?”

“I don’t think he’s precisely immortal, Chief,” Mulder ventured.

“Remember what the guard at the zoo told us Felix yelled when he shot

him?”

“‘Fore!” Scully recalled.

“No, ‘four.’ I don’t think Felix is immune from mortality. I think his life is

defined by feline parameters. Your friend Jack did get a bull’s-eye, and

Felix, realizing he was one step closer to mortality, cried out in dismay.”

Scully groaned. “Oh, please.”

“That was Felix’ fourth life. When Lavinia gave him the shiv tonight, he

gave up his fifth. He’s got four of his nine lives left. Speaking of

countdowns, we’ve probably given him enough time for his feline

instincts to kick in. That’s why I didn’t let him have any napkins. OK,

three, two, one…”

Mulder threw the conference room door open. Felix’ eyes popped, and his

inhumanly long sandpaper-like tongue was frozen in mid-groom. His

brown irises — narrow slits — transformed back into human form

“What’s new, pussycat?” Mulder purred.

“Shit,” Felix sighed.

**

Scully poked at the fried square on her plate. “No, Mulder.”

“C’mon,” her partner yawned, testing his coffee. “Fried mush is a New

England classic. Pour a little syrup on it.”

“Because there appears to be a cigarette butt in it. Why are we eating

breakfast in the town bar?”

Mulder leaned back, studying the stuffed egret over the Cobbler’s Tap bar,

staring cockeyed back at him. “Because after we retired their head chef,

busboy, and delivery man, I was afraid what the manager at the Colonial

Café might put in our syrup.”

“I think Chief Scarborough may recommend putting thorazine in yours’.

We’re just lucky we have all that DNA evidence, though I suspect

Longworth’s attorney will drum up enough reasonable doubt to drive a

Hummer through, especially the lack of any wounds to match up with that

DNA.” Scully shoved her greasy cornmeal brick to the side. “Let’s get on

the road — we can make Mom’s by evening if we leave now.”

Mulder dropped a ten on the burned and chipped formica and rose. “Well,

at least you gotta admit–”

“No, Mulder,” Scully stated flatly. “I don’t. You got any business, you

better take care of it now. Because I’m driving, and there will be no

unscheduled Slurpee stops.”

“Good,” Mulder said.

“Fine.”

“All right.”

Scarborough’s unit thumped over the curb behind Mulder’s rental as the

pair exited the tap, and the chief jumped out almost as the engine cut out.

“He’s gone,” the cop announced.

“Felix?”

Scarborough nodded. “Cell was empty this morning. I don’t even want to

think about how he escaped. Put out an APB. You gonna stick around?”

Mulder considered, and Scully coughed. “Ah, no — I think you can handle

it from here.”

The chief then chewed his lip and glanced off for a moment at the sun

rising over the cove. “Well, maybe we won’t have to.”

Mulder’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“We-e-ell, we’re in charge of the county’s K-9 drug unit. We’re kinda

short on real estate, and we built a kennel right beyond the cell block year

or so back. After we discovered Felix was gone, I noticed the casement

window at the end of the corridor was open. Window opens out into the

kennel.”

“Oh, God,” Mulder murmured.

“Yeah,” Scarborough sighed uncomfortably. “That’s how we’d went back

to check on Felix — the boys sent up quite a row back there.”

“How many ‘boys’?” Mulder asked slowly.

“Enough.” The chief sighed. “Gonna miss those bacon cheeseburgers.”

Title: Lactrodectus

Author: Vickie Moseley

Summary: Written for VS 13 Halloween Special

Event. Scully goes trick or treating with Tara and

the kids, but was it wise to leave Mulder alone for

the night?

Category: V, A, MT

Rating: One curse, the rest is pretty harmless

Disclaimer: I’m not profiting off this work of

fiction, so back of lawyer dudes! No copyright

infringement intended.

Archive: VS 13 exclusive for two weeks from

posting. After that, yes

Author’s notes: I’ve been dying to do this one for a

long time and finally it fell into place. Hope

everyone takes it in the ‘spirit’ it’s given.

Feedback: vickiemoseley1978@yahoo.com

Latrodectus

by Vickie Moseley

Mulder and Scully’s residence

Washington, DC

October 31, 2005, 5:15 pm

Two feet were visible from under the wooden back

porch steps of 3506 N Street NW. Two large feet

clad in equally large boots. The boots wiggled and

shifted as their owner attempted to hammer the

support into the top step. When a loud yelp was

heard from under the stairs, Dana Scully got up

from her perch on the step and walked into the

house in search of the first aid kit.

“Maybe I should call Tara and tell her I can’t make

it,” Scully called over her shoulder as she heard her

partner and impromptu carpenter enter the house.

“That’s ridiculous, Scully. You promised Tara

you’d help her take the kids trick or treating around

your Mom’s neighborhood. Why would you back

out now?” Mulder asked, around his index finger

that was stuck in his mouth. “Bandaid,” he added

and withdrew the injured digit to show her the

damage.

“I just . . . well, I don’t like leaving you alone, if you

know the truth of the matter,” she said reluctantly as

she fastened the fabric strip to his slightly mangled

extremity.

“You think I’m going to invite a bunch of nubile

young coeds from the college in here and have an

orgy?” he whispered with a mocking grin.

“No, I think you’ll end up maimed or worse,” she

shot back, turning to put away the first aid kit.

He frowned at that. “You leave me alone all the

time, Scully. What’s so different about tonight?”

“Tonight, Mulder, is Halloween. Do I really need

to recite the last several Halloween ‘annual trips to

the ER’ to make you understand my concern?”

“Last year I was treated and released,” he said

pointedly.

She rolled her eyes and pushed past him. “My point

exactly,” she said as she walked toward the phone.

“Scully, don’t be silly!” he admonished. “Look, I

have a the baseball playoff games that I didn’t watch

on the DVR, I have an entirely new unopened

package of Act II Butter Lovers microwave

popcorn, AND a six-pack of Sam Adams

Octoberfest — to be honest with you, you would

only be in my way tonight!” That got him a glare

that almost caused him to rethink his plans. After a

moment’s hesitation, he rested his hands on her

shoulders. “Tara needs you tonight. She has two

little goblins dying to trick or treat and you know

what a handful they can be. I will be safe and snug

in our little home. I promise I won’t even turn on

the porch light so I’m not accosted by some vicious

11 year-old on a bad dextrose trip. The worst thing

you’ll find when you come home later tonight is that

all of my car windows will have been soaped. Now,

please, go to your sister-in-law’s and have a good

time!”

“You promise me you won’t go out anywhere.”

“Indian Guide’s honor,” he affirmed, holding his fist

with two fingers extended to the back of his head.

Scully sighed heavily. “I’m gonna be so angry if I

end up spending another All Saints Day next to

your bedside, Mulder.”

“How about in my bed?” he asked suggestively.

“Can it, Romeo, you know we have work

tomorrow,” she huffed. “OK, I’m going. I will be

back by 10:30 at the latest. If you need me, I’ll have

my cell phone on at all times.”

“Scully, you sound like I’m the sitter. Who, pray

tell, am I supposed to ‘sit’?”

“I’m trying not to dwell on the answer to that

question. It might make me rethink this whole

evening.”

6:25 pm

Mulder was deep in the National League Central

Division game between the reigning Division

Champion St. Louis Cardinals and the Houston

Astros. He already knew the Cards would win, a

homer late in the ninth inning that would leave the

Houston fans reeling. The Cards would go on to

lose the title the next night, but it was still a fun

series to watch. He was fast-forwarding through yet

another Bud Light commercial when his stomach

gave him a sharp tug.

Absently rubbing his stomach, he headed into the

kitchen. Food. His body needed sustenance. He

pulled out the sandwich meat from the refrigerator

and was reaching for the loaf of bread when the

small tug grew to a pain that doubled him over. It

was gone so quickly he almost could have

convinced himself he imagined it. He was puzzling

over his strange indigestion when he heard a knock

at the back door.

He flipped on the light to the back porch and peered

into the dimly illuminated area. An older woman

stood under the cover of the porch roof, the wind

whipping at her grey streaked hair. She shivered as

he debated whether to open the door, making his

decision an easy one.

“Can I help you?” Mulder asked, watching the old

woman trembling in the force of the wind. “Are

you lost?”

“No, deary me, no,” she replied. “I’m Mrs. Dickens.

I live just down the street. I understand you and

your wife are fairly new to the neighborhood.”

“Well, we moved in over a year ago,” Mulder

interjected but the old woman continued as if she

hadn’t heard him.

“I have a little Halloween tradition for the neighbors

on this block. Candied apples. My grandmother

taught me how to make them with cinnamon red

hots. They’re quite tasty. Anyway, I just wanted to

drop these off to you and your misses. You were

away last year and missed out on the fun.” She

promptly handed him two shiny red apples wrapped

in cellophane, tied with colorful orange and black

paper ribbon.

“Oh, well, that’s awfully thoughtful of you, Mrs.

Dickens, thank you. My, uh, Dana’s out taking her

nephew and niece trick or treating, but I’ll be sure to

tell her you stopped by.”

“I best be running along. Other deliveries to make,

you know. Have a nice evening then,” she said with

a wave and disappeared into the darkness beyond

the porch light.

Mulder stared out into the autumn night, watching

the old woman scurry down the alley to the next

house. Odd behavior, he thought, but not unlike the

folks out on the Vineyard. Halloween was a

favorite holiday in his youth. He remembered the

candied apples made by Mrs. Galbrand, their next-

door neighbor, every year for the kids in the

subdivision.

He put the apples on the counter near the sink,

intent on waiting until Scully returned to indulge in

the treat. His stomach grumbled loudly and he

remembered his early bout of — what had that been?

Hunger pains? Unlikely, he’d had a decent lunch.

But his stomach growled again and he found

himself reaching for the nearest apple. With boyish

anticipation, he pulled off the ribbon and cellophane

and lifted the apple to his lips. The cinnamon scent

rolled off the fruit in waves and he stopped to savor

it. Finally, his mouth watering, he took a big bite.

It was heaven! Just as he remembered, maybe even

better. Whatever the recipe was, he was going to

have to see if Mrs. Dickens would share it with

Scully. Better yet, with Maggie, who would put it

to better use. He was about to take a second bite

when the kitchen light flared once and then again.

The room started to spin around him. He reached

out his hand to steady himself as his eyes rolled

back in his head and he felt himself falling.

He awoke slowly. He could hear the monitor

beeping next to his head. Oh crap, was his first

thought. He felt something warm surrounding his

hand. Scully’s hands, he reasoned. She was by his

bedside again. She would want to know he was

awake. But did he really want to curry her wrath by

letting her know it? What had she said to him just

before leaving? How angry she’d be if she had to

spend another All Saints Day by his bedside. He

could only hope she managed to scrape up a little

sympathy, since he was obviously in ill health.

He heard a soft sniffle and knew he couldn’t pretend

any longer. Anger, he could hide from but he hated

to make Scully cry. Slowly, he tried to open his

eyes. They wouldn’t cooperate. He moved his hand

and felt her fingers tighten on his. He moved his

head, still trying to make his lids open.

“Mulder,” she sighed hopefully.

Finally, his eyes cooperated. He was definitely in a

hospital bed, he could tell by the lighting. He

looked at Scully and the smile that lit her face could

have powered a ship to the moon. “Hi,” she said,

her voice choked with emotion.

“Scully,” he replied, swallowing. It felt like he

hadn’t had water in months. He swallowed again

and looked at her. Something was wrong. Her hair

was different. Not short with the little bit of curl

she’d finally adopted and he’d thoroughly approved.

It was longer, almost past her shoulders. She

looked tired, so very tired. Oh, God, he considered,

how long had he been sick? “Scully,” he tried

again.

“Shh, Mulder, don’t talk,” she chided. “Do you

have any idea what you’ve been through?”

He searched her face. Her eyes held a thousand

emotions, most prominent was pain. He’d really

done it this time. Whatever had happened, he’d

caused her untold anguish. He wondered if he

could ever make it up to her. “Only what I see in

your eyes,” he whispered.

She laid her head on his chest and kissed him

through the hospital gown. Tentatively, he brought

his hand up to stroke her head. “Anybody miss

me?” he joked.

It worked. He could feel her laughter through his

ribs, his sore ribs now that he thought about it. In

fact, his whole body ached, all the way down to his

toes. He wanted to know what was wrong with

him, but Scully’s laughter had turned to tears, he

could feel her quaking with the force of her sobs.

“Hush, Scully, don’t cry. I’m OK now. I’m OK.

C’mere, look at me. See, I’m fine.”

“Mulder,” she started but then the door opened. Her

head jerked over to catch sight of a man Mulder had

never seen standing in the doorway. The guy

ignored Mulder completely, looking only at Scully.

Their eye contact was their only communication.

The man nodded his head once and slowly closed

the door, leaving them alone. She turned her

attention back to Mulder.

“Mulder,” she began again. He couldn’t figure out

what was so difficult. What couldn’t she tell him?

How sick was he? Was he dying? Had that been

his doctor at the door? That didn’t make sense, the

doctor would have come in and poked and prodded

him, they all did every other time he’d been in the

hospital.

“Scully, please, what is going on? What can’t you

tell me?” he pleaded.

She frowned, biting her bottom lip. Cautiously, she

pushed the chair she was sitting in back a few

inches, raising to stand by his bed. As she rose, his

gaze stayed on her face. Tears were streaking down

her cheeks. Slowly, hesitantly, she placed her hand

on her rounded stomach —

“Jesus, Scully, what happened with you? You look

pregnant!” he exclaimed, suddenly not able to pull

in enough air.

“Mulder, let me explain . . . ”

“Scully, what is it? Is it the cancer? How did this

happen so quickly? What the hell is going on?” he

demanded.

She licked her lips nervously. “No, Mulder, I look

pregnant because I am pregnant,” she said slowly.

“You’ve been — oh, God, how do I tell you?”

“Pregnant? Scully, that’s impossible. You’re

barren. We’ve never used birth control — we never

needed to use it. Surely you would have become

pregnant before now!”

“Mulder we tried the invitro last spring . . .”

“We tried _what_?” he cried out. “Scully, we never

talked about kids. It was always too painful. And

we never . . . I never . . .” Suddenly pieces started

clicking into place. He felt as if his heart was in a

vice and it was being crushed. “Scully, who was

that man at the door a minute ago,” he asked, his

voice low and frightened.

“That was my partner, John Doggett,” she said

simply. “Mulder, this baby — ”

“P-p-partner? I’m your partner,” he stammered in a

pained whisper. “Scully, is this baby — did you and

he — how long have I been ill?”

“Oh, this is not going well,” she said simply and sat

down again. She took his hand in her two and held

it tight. “Mulder, you went missing 7 months ago.

You went out to Bellefleur, Oregon on a case

involving multiple abductees.”

“No, it was Halloween, Scully. You were trick or

treating with Tara, Matty and Claire,” he

interrupted.

“Who’s Claire?” she asked, frowning in confusion.

“Your niece. Bill and Tara’s daughter. Claire.

Scully, you have to remember her.”

“Bill and Tara only have Matthew, Mulder,” she

insisted. “But anyway, you were . . . Mulder you

were abducted.”

“By whom?” he asked, more befuddled than ever.

She rolled her eyes in exasperation. “By a ship,

Mulder. A ship in the sky. Skinner was there with

you at the time, he saw it happen. Mulder, you

were abducted along with Teresa Nemman and her

husband Ray Hoese and several other people.

Many of them were returned and some of them

lived, but Mulder, when you were returned — ” She

choked on the words. “Mulder, you were dead.

You were dead and we buried you three months

ago.” Unable to hold back the sobs, she dropped

her head to her hands and shook for all she was

worth.

He sat there, stunned. “Scully, if I’m dead, and

buried, how the hell are we having this

conversation?”

His words gave her something to focus on. She

lifted her eyes to his. “Billy Miles,” she said

quietly.

“From our first case,” he supplied.

“Yes. He was there, when you were abducted. He

was abducted, too. And when he was returned, his

body was in the ocean — for three months. He was

pulled out of the sea by some fishermen. When

they got his body to the morgue, the ME noticed

that he was, uh, breathing.”

“After three months in water? Maybe he’d been in

hiding, maybe he just fell in. Remember when you

found me near Bermuda, Scully,” he reminded her.

“Mulder, the body was partially decomposed. It

showed all the signs of prolonged exposure to salt

water. But somehow, he was alive.”

“But you said I was buried. Did you bury me at

sea?” he sneered. He didn’t want to be angry with

her, she was having such a difficult time, but her

whole tangled story was starting to annoy him. He

just wanted the truth out of her so he could go to

sleep.

“No, you were buried in North Carolina, near your

mother. After Skinner heard about Billy, he had

your casket exhumed.”

“So Skinner dug me up. Somehow, that’s fitting,”

Mulder muttered.

“At first, it appeared that you were just barely alive.

And then when Billy shed his skin — ”

He started to interrupt her again, but one look

silenced him. He nodded for her to continue.

“He became an alien,” she said with a cleansing

breath.

“An — ”

“Alien,” she repeated softly. “And then he took

off.”

“Scully, one of us is having a really bad dream — ”

“Mulder, this is true, every word of it. I can’t

explain it all, I don’t know how it happened. All I

know is that you were gone. I found out about

this,” she patted her stomach, “the day Skinner told

me you had been taken. And then I looked for you,

in the desert in New Mexico. I could feel you

nearby but I couldn’t see you. I searched for

months, never giving up until the night we found

you in the middle of a field. Mulder, you were

dead. There was no denying it. And the only man

who could save you, who could possibly bring you

back, was gone.”

“But I’m here. And unless this is a Halloween

Haunting, I’m alive,” he asserted.

“Yes. Thank God, you are. When the ME in North

Carolina detected vital signs, vital signs that had not

been there previously in your body, Skinner and

Doggett had you shipped here to Bethesda. At first,

we had you on life supports. But then, something

happened and for some reason Skinner took you off

life supports. And that’s when it hit me. That was

incubating the alien, the one gestating inside your

body.”

Mulder blanched, his mind flashing on Scully in a

frozen cryopod, an alien fetus feeding off her life

force. “Oh, God, Scully,” he said, his face taking

on a chalky complexion.

“Mulder, stay with me. We took you into surgery

and injected you with every anti-viral available.

You stabilized. If you’d actually been . . . taken

over, you would have shed your skin and been

totally reborn. You would have been in perfect

health, no visible scars or injuries. Mulder, if you

could see yourself right now, you’d know that didn’t

happen. They tortured you, Mulder. They did

horrible things to your body and I’m so sorry I

wasn’t there to stop it from happening.” Again, it

was too much for her to bear and she started to

weep.

It was all so much to understand. He’d been gone

for 7 months. Scully had a new partner. His life, as

he knew it, was irrevocably changed. Could he ever

get his old life back?

“Your mom, Tara, do they know . . . I’m alive?”

“I haven’t called Mom yet,” she said through her

tears. “Why would I call Tara?”

“Well, I missed an awful lot of soccer games. God,

poor Matty! I promised to help his tee ball coach

this spring. Poor kid’s been through the wringer.”

“Why would Matty be affected, Mulder?” she asked

innocently.

That hit him in the gut. He felt more than annoyed

at her attitude, he felt offended. “Gee, Scully, I

know I could never replace Bill but I thought I

provided at least a shadow of a male influence in

the kid’s life. Now you act like he wouldn’t give a

damn if I lived or died!”

“Mulder. Bill, Tara and Matty live in San Diego.

When Mom told her about your death, Tara sent a

nice floral arrangement to the funeral home and a

card she got at the local Hallmark store. They don’t

know you well enough — and besides, I don’t think

Bill does care if you live or die. He made that

perfectly clear when I told him about the baby!”

Now he was even more confused, and suddenly

very worried. “Scully, sweetheart, Bill died, just a

little over a year ago, well, two years ago now, I

guess. Don’t you remember?”

She looked stricken for a moment, but pulled down

her calm face. She reached over and brushed his

forehead. “Mulder, I think, I think you’ve become

very confused. I think — maybe your brain — ” She

choked up again, but forced the words out. “Your

brain affliction — ”

“What ‘brain affliction’? Scully, my brain is fine!”

he declared emphatically. “How could I have a

brain affliction? And if I did, why didn’t you tell

me about it?”

Now she was angry. “You didn’t tell ME about it!”

she shouted. “You were seeking treatment in North

Carolina for a month before you disappeared and

you never said a word to me!”

“Scully, for the last month we’ve been out in

California chasing a little Anasazi guy! I was right

with you the entire time!”

“What Anasazi?” she demanded. And just as

suddenly, while he watched, her features melted

into green goo. He remembered seeing it before but

he’d been under the influence of a powerful narcotic

supplied him by a killer mushroom in Georgia. He

closed his eyes against his horror and promptly

passed out.

Northeast Georgetown Medical Center

November 2, 2005

10:13 am

“Mulder? Mulder, c’mon. The doctor says you

should be waking up now. The antivenin has been

in your bloodstream long enough to counter the

effects of the bite. Wake up, please?” Scully was

pleading with him to wake up. But did he want to?

He remembered the last time he’d woken up and he

didn’t want to face that again. She should have left

him dead and buried. But that thought gave him no

comfort either.

“Mulder, please. I told Mom and Tara to bring the

kids by later to see you. Matty picked out all the

Snickers from his treats bag just for you because he

said you buy them for him after his soccer games.

C’mon, open those beautiful eyes for me,” she

crooned.

At the mention of Matty and soccer games, Mulder

forced his eyes open. “Scully,” he rasped.

She gave him that smile he lived for. “Hi,” she said.

He studied her face carefully. Her hair was back to

normal; her face was thin as it had been when she

left the house to go trick or treating. But he had to

make sure his assumptions were correct. “Scully,”

he said in a hoarse whisper. “Would you please

stand up?”

She gave him a perplexed look, but did as he asked.

She was thin, perfectly thin.

“Thank God,” he murmured.

“Mulder, do you have any idea what you’ve been

through?” she asked.

It startled him and he flinched. She immediately

reached out her hand and cupped his cheek.

“Mulder, we have black widow spiders under the

back porch,” she said sadly. “I called Mr. Timmons

after we got you to the ER. He had an exterminator

come out yesterday. Oh, and he said next time, he’ll

be happy to fix that loose board. As a matter of

fact, he was so upset about you getting bitten, he’s

going to replace those steps with cement ones just

as soon as he can arrange for a contractor.”

“Did you say black widow?” he asked. “But I

thought — what about Mrs. Dicken’s candied

apple?”

“What candied apple, Mulder? As near as we can

tell, you were bitten under the porch. That scratch

you had on your finger was actually a bite. You

should have experienced stomach cramps — ”

“I did. I thought it was hunger pangs,” he admitted.

“Well, not long after that you probably passed out.

The bites are small but black widow venom is 15

times more poisonous than a snakebite.”

He cringed again. “Don’t say snakebite around me,

Scully. You know how I get,” he warned.

“Mulder, you had a serious episode. You’ve had

hallucinations, at least as far as we could tell, for the

past two days.”

“So it’s not All Saints Day?” he asked sheepishly.

“No. It’s All Souls Day. And I was beginning to

think I needed to go to Mass this morning and pray

for your soul,” she countered. “Mulder, a spider?”

“Scully, I didn’t mean to get bitten by a poisonous

spider. I’m not even afraid of spiders,” he said with

a shrug. “Although, now I might have to rethink

that. Maybe it’s not a phobia if — ”

“Mulder, here is what I think. Next Halloween,

we’re going some place deserted and we’re going to

look for ghosts!”

He looked at her in total shock and amazement.

“Scully, what are you suggesting?”

“I’m not suggesting anything, Mulder. I’m telling

you. The only time we haven’t ended injured, or

more specifically when YOU haven’t ended up

injured on Halloween is when we went ghost

busting in Prairie du Rocher, Illinois and we saw the

King’s Emissary’s Ghost Funeral. So next year,

we’re going to find another haunted site — ”

“Houdini’s grave? Please, Scully, can we go to

Harry Houdini’s grave?” he begged.

She smiled affectionately at him. “Oh, all right.

We’ll go to Harry Houdini’s grave. I think you have

better luck with ghosts than with the real world,

Mulder.”

He opened his arms and she fell into his embrace.

He was happy to be in his real world again. After

some quiet moments, she pulled back.

“So, what were you dreaming about?” she asked

innocently. “Whatever it was, you certainly tossed

and turned enough.”

No. There was no way he could tell her. It was all

too insane, too unbelievable. Besides, it was a

nightmare he’d rather forget. “Oh, nothing much.

A wicked witch came by the house with a poisoned

apple and sent me to hell. You know, the usual

Halloween inspired nightmares.”

“Well, when you get out of here, I’ll make you

forget all about them,” she promised.

He hoped sincerely she would.

The end.

Latrodectus: black widow spider

Title: Crenshaw Mansion

Author: Vickie Moseley (teaser and story concept by Sally Bahnsen)

Summary: Investigating the disappearance of a Forestry employee, Mulder and

Scully stumble on a horrible secret that almost separates them forever.

Rating: clean enough for everyone

Written for Virtual Season 12

Archives: two weeks exclusive with VS 12, after that, yes

Disclaimer: I don’t own the Mansion, the state bought it a couple of years ago.

I don’t own Mulder and Scully, Carter keeps them chained in his attic. I do pay

taxes in this state, so I guess I’m part owner of Ferne Clyffe State Park (yes

that is the correct spelling) and as pretty as that place is, I’ll be happy with

that. No copyright infringement intended.

Dedicated: To Sally, for helping me hammer all this out. I love ya! Kisses

for Mary for lightning fast beta while packing for Media West. Big Chocolate

Mulders for Lisa, for finding shackles and carriages with tops. And for the

rest of the VSX crew, Donnaj, T, Martin — you guys keep me sane.

Author’s notes at the end.

Crenshaw Mansion

Teaser

It stood like a lone citadel high on a hill overlooking a patchwork quilt of

fields surrounding the small township of Gallatin County.

Tom Coleman steered the Forestry pick-up onto the access road leading to

Crenshaw Mansion, the back tires kicking up a spray of gravel as they fought for

traction on the steep driveway. “The sooner they get this place sealed, the

better.” He mumbled to himself.

Reaching the area proposed by local government for the new parking lot, he

veered to the right, coming to a stop outside the three-story building. A shiver

ran down his spine. Ever since he was a kid this place had given him the creeps.

Tall tales of ghosts and demons haunting the house had fed his vivid childish

imagination, filling his dreams with frightening images of giant black

poltergeists roaming the halls, their chain-linked feet scraping on wooden

floorboards as they cried for freedom. When his cell phone rang he jumped in

fright and threw himself against the driver’s door before realizing the only

danger he was likely to experience was from his girlfriend Beckie if he didn’t

make it home in time for dinner.

He flipped open his cell phone, feeling somewhat foolish at his over reaction.

“Hi, hon. One hour. I promise.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard that before.” He could hear the smile in her voice, but

knew better than to be fooled into complacency by her easy going manner. Rebecca

Murphy’s gentle lilt could shift to that of a raving banshee in a matter of

seconds if pushed the wrong way. But Tom had a knack for heading her off at the

pass. She was beautiful when she was angry. Beautiful when smiling, asleep,

crying, laughing, and he was counting the days before he would make her his

wife.

“I swear, Beck, this is my last stop. I just gotta sign off at the office and

then I’ll be home. Get the fire started and the wine cooled, I’m practically on

my way.”

“You better be.”

“I promise. Now, if you’ll stop yacking at me, I’ll be a lot quicker. See you

soon, I love you.”

“Love you, too. Be careful.”

“Always.”

He disconnected with a loopy grin plastered on his face. With some luck he’d

have the job finished within ten minutes and be home well inside the hour he’d

promised.

Pacing out the eastern perimeter, Tom checked his watch and smiled to himself.

He’d make it with time to spare, might even have time to stop on the way home

and surprise Beckie with a bunch of flowers. A small gesture to ease ruffled

feathers caused by too many late night budget and planning meetings to get the

proposed parking lot underway.

A sudden bolt of lightening split the early evening sky in two, followed

immediately by a loud clap of thunder. Tom peered at the dark clouds rolling in

from the north. If he didn’t get moving he was going to end up with a wet ass.

He pulled his jacket tighter around his body and lifted the collar to protect

his ears and neck from the squalling wind. He was within 20 or 30 yards of

finishing up when the first raindrops landed on his head. It was only seconds

before the heavens opened up dumping gallons of torrential rain from above.

Tom made a run for it. His pick-up was parked on the western side of the

building; he’d be soaked through before he could make it even half way there.

Sprinting hard, he took the steps leading to the old mansion two at a time

seeking shelter on the porch. The wind picked up, whipping his hair and tugging

at this jacket. Rain pelted underneath the eaves, giant drops creating a

horizontal sheet of water drumming against the front of the house and soaking

Tom to his skin. In desperation he grabbed at the door handle giving it an

experimental tug. To his surprise the door swung open, its creaking hinges

barely audible over the torrent of rain. He stepped through to the foyer,

slamming the door shut behind him and leaned against the solid oak, feeling it

rattling against his body as he fought to catch his breath.

Outside the storm raged sending another bolt of lightening arcing across the

sky, its brief illumination giving Tom a chance to check out his surroundings.

The foyer was a short rectangular shape, a small hallway leading to the back of

the house. Tom’s immediate thought was that the house seemed to be split in two

by some kind of time warp. On the left he saw a door and a staircase leading to

an upper level, its design every bit in keeping with architecture of the late

1800s. However, in stark contrast to the period style setting of left, the right

side was every bit as modern as the left was old. Tom could just make out a

single door opposite the staircase. But what really caught his attention was

the glow of light coming from the second floor.

That didn’t seem right. As far as he knew no one had lived in the old Crenshaw

mansion for years. It had become a popular tourist attraction both with locals

and visitors, hence the need for a new improved parking lot.

Slowly, he moved towards the staircase.

“Hello? Is anyone up there?” Apart from the howl of the wind he was greeted

with silence.

“Hello!” He tried again, this time cautiously ascending the stairs one at a

time. Still there was no answer. “My name is Tom Coleman. I’m a Ranger with the

Forestry Service. Is anyone up there?”

Each step upwards emitted a long creak of protest from the stairs. Tom had never

been inside the house and quite frankly he was beginning to wish he wasn’t there

now. The hair on the back of his neck tingled and he could feel his heart

hammering against his chest.

When he finally reached the second floor he was greeted with a scene reminiscent

of an old western movie. It was as if he’d been transported back in time a

hundred and fifty years. The light that had been visible from the foyer was not

electric, but instead originated from a series of candelabras attached to the

walls on both sides of the hallway. The flames flickered almost to extinction

then flared to life again, as a gust of wind swept down the hallway.

“Hello! Is anyone there?” Tom made his way tentatively along the second floor,

another gust of wind blew through an open window at the end of the hallway

momentarily dousing the flames to almost nothing. Tom moved towards the window

intending to close it before the candles were snuffed out completely. He was

only a few feet from the window when he heard a noise behind him. Turning, his

eyes widened with shock and a scream caught in the back of his throat as a

wooden bat connected with his head. Tom slumped to the ground, blood oozing from

a cut just behind his left ear.

Act I Scene 1

The sun was shining brightly in the cloudless blue sky. If Mulder closed his

eyes, feeling the hot sun on his face, he could almost envision a summer’s day.

A strong gust of wind brought a flurry of dried oak leaves to swirl near his

face and brought him back to reality. It was still spring, even in far Southern

Illinois. The temperature was a ‘balmy’ 40 degrees and he shuddered inside his

charcoal suit coat when the gust brought that down closer to 20.

The house before him was impressive in the bright sunlight. It was painted red

and he wondered if it had always been red, even when first built. It gave off a

quality of opulence that was missing from the small towns and farm fields of

Gallatin County. A three-story manse, set on the very top of one of the tallest

hills, made for a curiosity, if not a tourist site. When the history of the

house was told, it held a natural, as well as unnatural, attraction.

Mulder fumbled in the pocket of his suit jacket and withdrew the brochure he’d

found at a rest stop on Interstate 24 on his way up from the Paducah, KY

airport. “Slave House”, the cover screamed in the old B movie poster font of

Vincent Price and Ed Wood features. The house before him was prominently

featured on the cover as well as a short summary. Inside, pictures of the

house, each floor, but particularly the third floor, spelled out the history of

the mansion. Owned by one John Crenshaw before and during the Civil War, the

house was once a stop on the reverse ‘Underground Railway’. Instead of helping

slaves escape their captors and find freedom in the northern states, this house

was a collecting station for runaways who were then returned to their captivity

in the south. Mulder was just beginning to read when his cell phone trilled in

his pocket. He took note of the ring tone, ‘Walking in Memphis’ and smiled.

“Hey Scully,” he said affably as he answered. “How goes the autopsy?”

“That’s why I’m calling. I may be a while. When does my plane leave?”

He glanced at his watch. “2:45. The best Kim could do was to get you on a

flight into Evansville, Indiana, but it’s not a far drive. We end up with two

rental cars that way.”

“Mulder, why don’t you pick me up? Or can’t you tear yourself away from the

ghosts in the attic?” she teased lightly.

“Yeah, I could, you’re right. But I did want to look around a bit. Wait till

you see this place, Scully. It’s got a real Norman Bates feel to it,” he joked

in return.

“Just remember, we’re there to find a missing Forestry Service employee, not

find the ghosts of old slaves and slave owners,” she reminded him.

“I remember,” he said. “I left your ticket on the desk, under the blotter.

Give me a call when you get to the airport and I’ll pick you up.”

“You better be there, Mulder. If I end up stranded in Evansville, Indiana, for

any length of time, you will pay and pay dearly,” she warned.

The sound of tires on the gravel drive alerted Mulder to an approaching vehicle.

“I gotta run, Scully. I think the locals just arrived.”

“Be nice, Mulder,” she warned.

“I’m always nice,” he shot back with a grin he knew she knew he was wearing.

“OK, be _nicer_ than usual,” she responded and his grin grew to encompass his

whole face.

“Just hurry, Scully. It’s cold here without you.” Before she had a chance to

respond, or before either of them was forced to forego endearments because of

their very public locations, he disconnected the line. A US Department of

Interior Forestry Service truck pulled into the parking area and stopped next to

his rented Ford. Mulder stood by the white gate to the mansion and watched the

uniformed gentleman get out of the truck and come toward him.

“Folk Mulder?” called out the tall man, early 50s with a fringe of graying hair

sticking out under his dark green USFS cap.

“Fox, actually. Fox Mulder,” the agent corrected.

“Ah,” the man said with no apparent embarrassment. “Went to school with a guy

named Folk. No ‘Fox’, though,” he chuckled and held out his hand in greeting.

“Bob Miller, Forestry. Sure am glad you decided to make the trip.”

Mulder shook Miller’s hand firmly. “When Interior calls, the FBI really doesn’t

have much choice, does it?”

Miller snorted and looked away. “That’s what I thought, till I talked to those

deadheads up in Springfield. Seems none of the regional offices wanted to claim

jurisdiction,” he said around a stream of tobacco juice that he managed to spit

a few feet from Mulder’s shoes.

“Well, I’m here now and my partner will be joining us as soon as she can get

away from DC. Why don’t you fill me in on the disappearance.”

“Sure. Let’s go on up to the porch,” Miller said and opened the gate, walking

fast. Mulder had little trouble catching up.

“House has been in private ownership since it was built. Crenshaw, that’s John

Crenshaw, built it back in the 1830s. He made his money in the salt fields,

just down by the river. But his real money, folks believe, came from returning

escaped slaves. ‘Course, there are no records of that, but that’s not unusual,

since Illinois joined the Union as a free state in 1818. Returning escaped

slaves was criminal activity in this state, even before the Civil War. Didn’t

mean it wasn’t lucrative, o’ course.”

They were standing on the front porch of the mansion. It ran the length of the

front of the building and reached above them to the second floor. “Slaves were

reportedly kept in the third floor attic, brought in during the night, held for

a while and then taken back across the river. Landings just a few miles to the

south.”

“And no one reported it?” Mulder asked with a smirk.

Miller returned the look. “Well, those were different times, I tell ya. But

no, no one reported him. Since he was a fairly respected businessman, most

people turned a blind eye. But there were some, mostly the abolitionist types,

who would have gladly handed him over to the authorities. Still, there were

never any charges. ‘Course, he did have some connections.”

“Political, I take it,” Mulder interjected.

Miller smiled broadly. “Why, Abe Lincoln himself was supposed to have stopped

right here and had dinner with the local party when he was making the run for

the White House.”

“I bet that’s a story that got around.”

“Not really. I think the Lincoln folks would just as soon hide that one under a

rug,” Miller smirked.

Hearing its sordid past, the wood frame and clapboard structure took on an

ominous feel. “The most recent owners lived here on the first floor and opened

the rest of the house up as a museum and tourist attraction. Did real well for

many years, since we’re right on US Route 45, the old main south road from

Chicago. But the new Interstates, 24 and 64, pretty much changed all that. And

the couple who owned it were getting up in years, were having trouble with the

maintenance of the place and got the state to buy it and make a ‘historic

site’.”

“How did Forestry get involved?” Mulder asked, peering into one of the first

floor windows. There was nothing but gloom on the other side of the glass.

“This land is all part of the Shawnee National Forest,” Miller explained, making

a wide sweep of the surrounding hills with his hand. “We run fire towers, do

maintenance work on the roads. State asked us to look at that old parking lot

out there and see if we could chip in for a new paved lot. We do that sort of

thing from time to time, when the budget allows.”

“So we sent Tom, that’s Tom Coleman, over to check out the parking lot. Tom’s a

civil engineer, used to do highway work. Can look at a patch of dirt and tell

you exactly how much concrete it’ll take to cover it. Anyways, a storm came up,

as does in these parts, and we’re guessin’ Tom ran up on the porch. He didn’t

have a key, but when we came to look for him, the front door was wide open. We

found his footsteps, it was pretty muddy that day, all the way up the stairs to

the second floor. Then, they just disappear.”

“Tell me a little about Tom?” Mulder asked.

Miller’s eyes narrowed but he nodded in compliance. “Tom’s a good worker, top

notch. Got his engineering degree from Southern Illinois University, over in

Carbondale. He’s been with the Service now five years. He’s the most reliable

man on my crew, which is why I sent him over by himself to do this work. That,

plus, as I said, he used to do road work with IDOT in the summers when he was in

college.”

“IDOT?”

“Illinois Department of Transportation. He knows his stuff.”

“He’d have no reason to ‘just up and disappear’, then,” Mulder concluded.

“No sir.” Catching Mulder’s glance toward the windows, Miller shook his head.

“Tom just bought a house in Marion. I think he was getting ready to propose to

his girlfriend. She lives in Harrisburg — right shook up about him missing.”

Mulder felt a pang of guilt for pressing. He knew how ‘shook up’ someone’s

disappearance could make a person. Almost a decade had passed since Scully’s

disappearance and it still haunted his dreams. He was grateful that he could

wake up and pull her into his arms.

“Anyway, when he didn’t show up back at the office, me and another member of the

crew came over. Figured he had engine trouble with the truck. We found the

truck right here in the parking lot, and no sign of Tom. We called the Sheriff

and decided to see if we couldn’t find him around somewhere. The front door was

still open, so we went inside. Looked all over the place, just found the

footsteps. But . . .” The man hesitated and looked uncomfortable, failing to

meet Mulder’s questioning gaze.

“But what, Mr. Miller?” the agent prodded.

“Well, I don’t go in for all that spookster nonsense, mind ya. Oh, it’s great

for the tourists and all, but my feet are planted firmly on ole’ Terra Firma, if

you get my drift.”

“Sure, I understand,” Mulder consoled.

“But as we were looking on the second floor, just as we passed the stairs going

up to the third, well, damnedest thing . . .”

“Go on,” Mulder prodded.

“I swear I heard Tom’s voice. He was calling to me. But we’d searched the

third floor, the Sheriff had gone up there, too. There was nothing there.”

Miller took a deep breath. “I’ve lived in these parts all my life. I knew the

people who used to own this place, my younger brother went to high school with

their son. I’ve spent many a fall afternoon with my dogs hunting squirrel right

over there,” he pointed to the stand of trees just down the hillside. “I never

thought anything about all the stories. But after this, I think I might have

changed my mind.”

Mulder gave him a confused look.

“Agent Mulder, I will deny I said this to my dying day, but I’ll tell you. I’m

beginning to think this place really is haunted.”

Act I scene 2

“Maybe we better take a look inside,” Mulder suggested, trying to shake off the

chill that had crawled up his back at Miller’s comments.

“Sure thing. Got the key right here,” Miller said and produced a key on its own

steel ring. The lock was well worn and the door swung open with an almost

silent moan. Mulder peered into the gloom from the doorway, letting his eyes

adjust to the lights. He absently pulled a small maglight from his pocket,

Miller produced a larger flashlight from the pocket of his jacket and they both

proceeded into the house.

There was a light switch by the door. Mulder flipped it once, to no avail.

“Electric’s been off since the old owners left,” Miller explained.

Mulder shined his beam around the room, checking the door. “Not much security,”

he muttered.

“Folks around these parts are generally honest. Get a few trouble makers, but

nobody stupid enough to try and steal something outta a house like this.”

“Maybe they should hire ghosts to guard houses in the big city,” Mulder said

with a smirk. Miller answered with a nervous chuckle. He flashed the light

along the right hand wall and let it rest on a door in the center, a rather

modern looking door.

“Entrance to the private residence,” Miller explained.

“The owners lived here?” Mulder asked. “Did they know about the . . . ?”

“Ghosts? Sure! The lady of the house believed, the man more or less said it

was hogwash, to everyone round these parts at least. But they made a good

livin’ on the tourist trade comin’ through. And to be honest, they saved this

old place. Not that many people want a house this big, with this much past

history. If the previous owners hadn’t lived here and made it a tourist

attraction, chances are we’d be standing in an open field right now.”

Miller pulled out another key ring and found another key, unlocking the private

residence. “They updated the place a few years back,” he told Mulder as they

walked through the rooms. A living room with a fireplace and recently laid

berber carpet greeted them just inside the door. Through an archway they found

a modern kitchen with black enamel appliances and a modern island with faux

stone countertop. There were two bedrooms, a dining room and two baths in an

addition on the back of the house. The two men found nothing out of the

ordinary.

Mulder was feeling just a little foolish now that they’d gone through what

appeared to be a remodeled, but stylish, old house. “Let’s take a look at the

rest of the place,” he said decisively.

The other rooms downstairs had obviously been used for storage. The room at the

back of the house sported a large four-poster bed and nothing else. “This is

supposed to be the room Mr. Lincoln stayed in when he visited,” Miller

explained.

A thick layer of dust covered the floors, revealing no footprints. Mulder

noticed the absence of closets. “No closets? No place to hide?”

“Didn’t have ’em back then. People used ‘wardrobes’ and dressers, highboys and

the like. There’s some of ’em upstairs on the second floor, in the ‘restored’

rooms.”

“Then let’s head up stairs,” Mulder said easily.

The steps were old and creaked in several places as they made their way to the

second story of the house. In the open hallway, Mulder first encountered a low

display case, exhibiting a number of small bottles and boxes with a few pieces

of silver, tarnished with age. Hand printed signs gave the names of the

utensils and what the bottles held, each dated. “There are some old pieces in

this,” Mulder commented. Miller nodded.

The rooms on the second floor held more furnishings but these were by no means

modern. A formal parlor was set with china that looked very old to Mulder.

There was an old wardrobe, as Miller had described, in one room and Mulder

searched it for signs of anything amiss. Each room showed markings on the floor

where the search teams had already gone through.

Mulder stood in the hallway once again, scratching his head. “What’s that?” he

asked, pointing to a small door to the left of the staircase they’d used to come

up from the first floor.

“The attic,” Miller said solemnly. “Third floor. We checked that too.”

“Do you mind if I take a look?” Mulder asked but had already started toward the

door. A large padlock hung from a hasp and he waited patiently while Miller

produced the correct key.

“Knock yourself out,” Miller said, waving the agent to go up the steps before

him.

The stairwell was dark and musty smelling. A few of the boards seemed soft and

Mulder stepped carefully over them, making his ascent rather awkward. Miller

came behind him, mimicking his actions. When they finally made it to the third

floor, Mulder wasn’t sure what to expect. What he found was an empty attic,

with small cubicles running each long side of the house. Two windows, opposite

each other, broken out and wind howling through them, gave the only light to the

room.

“I thought you said they didn’t have closets,” Mulder commented as he flashed

his maglight into one of the cubicles.

“Those aren’t closets. They’re ‘quarters’,” Miller said with a dour expression.

In each cubicle, three slats of wood created shelves, approximately three feet

across and not more than five feet long. At the back wall, huge iron rings were

imbedded in the thick wood wall. A few of the rings still had heavy iron chains

attached.

“This is where they kept the poor bastards,” Miller said quietly.

Mulder reached out and hefted one of the chains. It was heavy enough to keep a

man from moving much. A thought occurred to him and he hurriedly searched every

cubicle. Miller stood near the stairs, watching the agent search.

“We looked up here, Agent Mulder. Believe me, we searched the whole structure.”

“Basement?” Mulder asked anxiously.

“Root cellar,” Miller corrected. “We had the dogs through too,” he added,

pointing to a paw print in the dust and dirt on the floor. “Nothing.”

“May I see the root cellar?”

“Sure. You done up here?” Miller asked.

“Yeah. I think so,” Mulder admitted reluctantly.

Miller led the way down the steps, Mulder following only after taking a long

look around the attic. The place felt cold, but with the broken windows, he

brushed it off as being the wind blowing through the place. Scully’s rubbing

off on you, he mused and that thought made him smile. When had he stopped

thinking first of the paranormal and instead trying to come up with a rational

explanation? He couldn’t wait to tell her when he picked her up at the airport.

Which meant he had better check the root cellar and leave soon to make it in

time.

Miller locked the door with the padlock when they reached the second floor.

“Kids like to scare each other, try stayin’ the night up here. Set a fire one

night, almost burned the place down. Lucky thing, we had a rainstorm blow

through, rain put out the fire. Best to keep the place locked and out of

temptation’s path.”

Miller’s cell phone chirped and he patted down his pockets until he located the

noisy object. He spoke into the receiver, squinting and moving around. “Can’t

hear ya, ah hell,” he said, finally hurrying down the steps to find a better

spot for reception.

Mulder started to follow, but didn’t want to intrude on the man’s conversation.

He was just starting down the steps when he heard something. At first he was

certain it was the wind howling through the open windows in the attic above, but

it had a different quality, one that raised the hairs on the back of his neck.

He heard it a second time and this time it was accompanied by a scraping sound,

like one of the heavy chains being dragged across wood.

He was able to hone in on the sound the second time he heard it. It was coming

from the attic. He stepped quickly over to the door that Miller had just

locked. He heard the sound again, much closer.

“Miller!” he yelled. “Mr. Miller, I need the key to the attic!” Mulder called

down, hoping the man hadn’t stepped too far away to hear him. “Miller, I need

that key!” he shouted again and moved toward the stairs to hurry after the man.

He was right on the first step down when something hard hit him in the back of

the head. It stunned him, but he reached for his gun and turned back to look

over his shoulder just in time to see a huge fist coming straight at him. Then

all was dark.

Act II scene 1

Evansville Regional Airport

Evansville, Indiana

4:00 pm

Scully stood at the baggage claim area and fumed silently. Once more she put

her cell phone to her ear, pressing the send button twice. There was no need to

dial the number, she’d been calling the same number during the 45-minute layover

she experienced in Detroit and for the 15 minutes since her Northwest Airlines

commuter plane had touched down in Evansville. When her partner’s voice mail

picked up, yet again, this time she decided to leave a message.

“Mulder. I’m going to assume you are brave enough to listen to this after

seeing the dozen or more missed calls coming from my number. This is to inform

you that you are now in deep shit for failing to pick me up at the airport. I

just wanted to make sure you realize that you are sleeping in a separate STATE

tonight, not just a separate room. And furthermore, you better figure out where

you’re going to be sleeping for the next month, because it will NOT be our

bedroom. I think I saw an old army cot down in the coal cellar. I’m sure

you’ll be quite comfortable down there.”

Just as she angrily pushed the button to disconnect the call, her luggage

appeared on the conveyor belt. “At least one thing seems to be going right

today,” she growled low as she grabbed the handle of the bag and lifted. The

sickening sound of a separating luggage zipper that had been on one too many X

files hit her ears mere seconds before the contents of her bag spewed forth

across the institutional grey tile floor of the concourse.

“Shit!” she cried out only too late realizing that she was in the midst of

traveling families. “Sorry,” she muttered as more than one angry mother shot

her a dirty look and covered their child’s ears. Hastily, she scooped the

wayward clothing back into the bag, wrapping her arms around it to keep the

contents inside. With effort, she made her way to the nearby rental car agency

and with a calm born only from years of working with Fox Mulder, she rented a

car and obtained directions to Harrisburg, Illinois.

Once on the road, she glanced down at the phone resting next to her on the empty

passenger seat. He’d turned it off. No, better yet, he’d let it run down.

That had to be the answer. Mulder had forgotten, as always, to recharge his

battery and as a result, it was dead as a doornail, sitting in his pocket and he

was none the wiser. She knew there had to be a logical explanation, but she was

getting rather sick of being the ‘grown up’ about their cell phones. If he

wasn’t losing the damned things, he was letting the batteries run down. He’d

tried to convince her that he did it just to save the life of the battery.

After letting him have it with both barrels, he’d sheepishly swore it would

never happen again. Until the next time, of course.

At least the sky was clear and the road was reasonably dry. It had been raining

when the plane touched down, but the storm had moved east and now it was bright

sunshine with no clouds to the west. After consulting the map, Scully realized

it was all two-lane highway to her destination, another reason to give Mulder

hell. She hated driving country roads, more so when she was by herself. She

had to watch carefully because it wasn’t a straight route, but required road

changes. She didn’t even have the comfort of knowing exactly where she was

going to meet up with her partner. Since he hadn’t told her how to get to the

mansion, she’d have to get the rest of the directions upon reaching Harrisburg,

which she prayed was bigger than its tiny circle appeared on the map.

Harrisburg Jiffy Stop

6:05 pm

After making a quick stop at the ladies room, Scully went into the store and

asked directions to the Crenshaw Mansion. She was met with a dull stare.

“Oh, you mean the old Slave House?” asked the ‘bright’, young woman working her

gum somewhat harder than she was working the keys to the cash register.

“Yes. The Slave House. I need directions,” Scully replied tiredly.

“Well, just go out west of town and look for the sign for Equality. Turn right

and you’ll see it at the top of the hill. Or you could just look for all the

police cars. Should be a slew of ’em out there by now.”

Something sour rose in her throat and her stomach did a slow roll. “Police

cars?” Scully queried.

“Yeah. Musta had some trouble out there, though I sure don’t know how. But the

sheriff was in here getting coffee when he got the call and a whole bunch of

squad cars and a couple of state troopers went tearing up the road. I heard ’em

say ‘old slave house’, that’s how I know’d where they went,” she added with a

proud smile.

Scully swallowed thickly and tamped down on the panic rising in her chest. “Do

you remember how long ago that was?”

“‘Bout 3, maybe 3:15. I know ’cause the middle school was lettin’ out and all

the kids were in here gettin’ sodies.”

“Thank you,” Scully said and turned to leave.

“Wonder if they found Tom’s body,” the girl mused and Scully turned back.

“You know about the missing Forestry Employee?”

The girl nodded sadly. “I’m Beckie’s cousin. Beckie and Tom were engaged, but

not a lot of folks ’round here now about it, lest not yet. Beckie asked me to

be a bridesmaid.” The girl sighed and shook her head. “He was such a nice guy,

too. Sure is a shame.”

Scully nodded in agreement and left the store for her car. Maybe that was it,

she thought. Maybe Mulder hadn’t picked her up because they found the body of

the missing ranger. That would explain it. He might have even turned his cell

phone off in that case. She’d almost convinced herself of that possibility when

she finished the final leg of her journey and steered the car up the narrow

gravel path to the large red house on the top of the hill.

The gravel parking lot looked like a convention — or a crime scene. Scully

spotted two Illinois State Police cruisers, three squad cars from Saline County

Sheriff’s Department and two trucks from the US Forestry Service. Off to one

side sat a light blue late model Taurus with a Lariat Rental Cars bumper

sticker. She sighed heavily as she pulled her own rental next to her partner’s.

She got out of the car, searching for Mulder among the commotion of law

enforcement officials. A uniformed State Trooper approached her and she dug in

her pocket for her identification.

“Agent Scully, I’m with the Bureau,” she said before the officer had a chance to

question her presence. “My partner is here somewhere.”

The Trooper looked closely at her badge and ID and then frowned. “What’s your

partner’s name?” he asked.

“Fox Mulder. He came out here before me. I’m sure if you check . . .”

“Bob! This is the partner you’ve been waiting for!” the officer called out in a

loud voice. An older man, wearing a forestry service uniform jacket turned and

walked quickly over to them.

“Agent Scully,” the man said offering his hand. “I’m Bob Miller, Forestry.

You’re partner mentioned you were on your way.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Miller. Where is Agent Mulder?” Scully asked, noticing

that the State Trooper hadn’t hung around long after Miller had stepped over.

“Well, you see, that’s the question,” Miller said nervously, his eyes darting

anywhere but to meet Scully’s ice blue gaze. “He, um, he . . .”

“Mr. Miller, is my partner here?” Scully asked again, realizing the man was

struggling with the question, albeit a very simple one.

“He was. He was right here. I was right next to him. And then, the next

minute — he was gone.”

Scully frowned and worried a back tooth with her tongue. “He left?”

“No, ma’am. He didn’t leave. The front door never opened, that I could see.

He just . . . he wasn’t there anymore!” the man stuttered out. “Just like Tom.”

Miller took her arm and led her to the front porch of the house. “I looked

everywhere. When I called and called and didn’t get an answer, I thought maybe

he went outside. I searched around. His car’s still here, as you can see,” he

said, pointing to the rental next to hers. “I found his overcoat and suit

jacket with his gun, his cell phone and his ID at the top of the steps on the

second floor. Look like he’d been patted down, because I didn’t find a holster.

That’s when I got nervous. I called the State Police and the Sheriff’s

department. They’ve been out here going on three hours, looking. We haven’t

found hide ner hair of him.”

Scully looked down at her watch and realized it had only been 4 hours since she

talked to him. She closed her eyes. She was afraid it was going to be a long

night.

Act II scene 2

Crenshaw Mansion

8:30 pm

It was now fully dark and Scully was doing her best not to panic. “We searched

the crawl space, Agent Scully,” the Sheriff’s deputy informed her as he

sidestepped a group of men coming out from under the house. “No sign anyone’s

been down there for a long time,” he said.

“Thank you, Deputy,” Scully said with forced calm. They had been through the

house several times already. She had personally gone through every room,

including the private quarters, at least twice. She found Mulder’s footprints

in the dust that covered the floor in one of the rooms, but it was obvious that

he had left the way he’d come in. It truly was as Bob Miller had told her: her

partner seemed to just disappear into thin air, without a trace. But she

couldn’t believe it, couldn’t drop into the despair that realization would

bring.

Miller had left for home an hour ago. He’d asked her if he should stay, but she

could see no point. There were at least seven men combing the house and the

small outbuilding in the back. The Sheriff had already made plans to start

searching the woods and fields surrounding the mansion. Scully thanked Miller

and promised to call if they found anything. With shoulders slumped and looking

desolate and very tired, the man reluctantly left for the night to get some

rest.

She’d already put in a call to Skinner. He had gone through the database,

searched for any escaped or paroled convicts who might have been in the

vicinity. He also put in the call to the regional office in Springfield.

Scully had hoped to get help not just from Springfield, but from St. Louis,

which had a larger office, but since Mulder had only been missing a little over

12 hours, Skinner’s hands were tied.

Scully leaned against the wall at the bottom of the steps on the first floor.

She watched as a deputy dusted the stair railing for prints. It was a long

shot, worse than a long shot. It was a shot in the dark, but she knew the

Sheriff was doing everything possible to treat this seriously. She knew several

of the men were thinking what her nagging little voice was telling her–Mulder

wasn’t here, he’d been taken from this place and their only hope was in finding

tracks of some kind so they could redirect their efforts away from this house.

“We’ve got the teams set up, Agent Scully. You said you wanted to come out with

us,” said a young man, another deputy that she couldn’t place with a name.

“Yes, thank you.” She nodded wearily and followed him out onto the porch. She

was just about to step off the top step when she heard it, plain as day.

“Scully!”

Her breath caught in her throat, she spun around and ran back into the house.

She heard it, she heard him call to her. Frantically she looked into the first

room, the one with a window overlooking the porch. There was nothing there.

The deputy who had been dusting saw her actions and joined her.

“I heard him. My partner. I heard him. Didn’t you hear him?” she demanded.

“No ma’am,” the young man said, a bewildered look on his face. “Just now?”

“Yes, just now! Right here, it sounded like — no, it was more . . . it echoed

more, like in the stairwell.” She was chewing on her lip, trying to place the

exact location Mulder would have been to call to her.

She hurried out to the hall. “Here, he would have . . .” She stopped. The

deputy was looking at her with wide eyes, obviously doubting her words, but

anxious to help. “You didn’t hear it?” she asked again, forcing a calm she

didn’t want to feel.

He shook his head in the negative. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I was right here and I

didn’t hear a thing.”

Mulder started to call out to Scully again, but the man holding his chains

backhanded him, sending him crashing to the floor. “No talking!” he was warned.

A yank on the iron collar around his neck cut off his airway for a few seconds,

forcing his feet under him. His vision grayed out for a moment, but when he was

standing the pressure lessened and he could see again. In the space of a

heartbeat, Scully was gone.

What was going on? he mused silently for what seemed like the millionth time.

One minute he could see her plain as day, talking to some kid in a uniform. The

next minute, she vanished into thin air and the whole mansion took on a

different quality.

“Rip in the time-space continuum?” he muttered, but it only caused his guard to

yank on the collar at his throat again. The iron was cutting into his skin at

his throat and wrists. He was shackled, throat, wrist and ankles. If he tried

to run, he’d likely fall flat on his face. The guard yanked again, this time

indicating that the prisoner was to move up the stairs. This time he followed

without making a sound.

As they approach the attic, the smell hits Mulder. He can’t remember anything

that smelled that bad. Years ago he’d gone with his father to the animal pound

and thought that was bad. He’d been to crime scenes where the body had laid

undetected for days in heat and humidity and knew that was bad. But this was

worse, much worse. Urine, sweat . . . and fear. It assaulted his sinuses and

made his eyes water. They cleared the doorway and it was even more

concentrated. It took his breath away.

His handler yanked on the chain and Mulder stumbled toward the left. As he

moved into the room he could see them. People, dozens of people. Most of them

men, here or there he might catch sight of a teen-age boy. All of them African-

American. All of them chained as he was, tethered to the iron rings he’d seen

earlier in the walls of the attic.

“This isn’t possible,” Mulder muttered. “I’m dreaming this,” he voiced aloud,

trying desperately to wake up from this nightmare.

“Shaddup!” yelled his handler and yanked so hard on his chains that for a moment

he thought his neck would break from the pulling. “Over here.” They were

standing directly in front of the second set of cells to the outside wall. In

the middle of that wall set one tiny window, the one that had let in such cold

air earlier, was now the only source of light or fresh air and it barely made a

dent. Mulder looked to the window and prayed a breeze would come by and give

him some air.

“Top bunk, now!” yelled the handler, right in his ear, and Mulder scrambled as

best as he could with his shackled legs to get up into the top bunk. The

handler reached over him and attached the chain to the ring in the wall.

Confident his prisoner was secured, the handler left without another word.

Mulder lay there for several minutes, too stunned to move. Gradually, the pain

in his neck and ankles from the chains forced him to move on to his back. It

amused him that he’d been correct in his earlier assessment of the cells — they

weren’t big enough to stretch out. His knees were bent to almost double to

accommodate him on his back, but at least the weight of the iron collar was less

on his throat and he could breath easier. He noticed that he was even becoming

accustomed to the stench of the attic room.

“Hey,” came a voice from below him. “Hey, you were with Bob, weren’t you?” The

voice was hoarse and raspy, Mulder could just barely make out the strained

whisper.

Leaning over as far as he could, he could see the man in the bunk below him.

After a moment, he could make out the face, could see the clothing. The man was

obviously Caucasian, he had sandy blond hair cut short. Although his clothing

was torn and filthy, Mulder could make out a US Forestry Service nametag sewn

onto the shirt on the left shoulder. “Are you Tom Coleman?” Mulder asked in a

hushed voice.

The man nodded vigorously and then winced at the movement. “Yeah, I’m Coleman.

You were with Bob Miller, my supervisor. I saw you earlier.” He lay back after

speaking, as if the effort was too much for him.

“Are you all right?” Mulder asked worriedly. “What happened to you?”

“Mouthed off and got whipped — tried to call out to you but you couldn’t hear

me,” Tom said in a tired whisper. “My back’s all cut up. I think I got a fever

to boot.”

“Look, Tom, my name is Fox Mulder. I’m a Special Agent with the FBI. As soon

as I can figure out what is going on here, I’m going to get us out.”

Tom barked out a bitter laugh. “We can’t get out. Don’t you see? We’re stuck

here, in this hellhole, for all time. Just like these poor bastards around us.”

“I can’t pretend to know I understand what’s going on — ” Mulder started.

“We’re gonna be sold acros’t t’ river,” came a voice from the bunk above. “You

think you got it made when you cross that big water, but man comes and drags you

back. Tha’s the way it always been.” There was a pause. “Lessen’ you escape.”

“What are you talking about?” Mulder asked. He leaned his head up to look at

the top bunk but couldn’t see the other man’s face because he was too far back

against the wall.

“Run fer it. What ’til the o’r’seer comes up here wit’ the keys. Tackle him

and run fer it. If we all go after him, we can take ‘im down. You with us?”

Mulder frowned. “How? How do you take him down?”

The hidden man chuckled. “You got ‘nuf chain to go ’round his throat, don’ ya?

Choke ‘im! I’ll whup him on t’ head. Young pup down dare can get his keys and

we’d be free men!”

Mulder was quiet for a long while, contemplating the other man’s words. “What

do you think?” Tom voice came from the gloom.

“I don’t know,” Mulder replied honestly.

“Don’t have much choice, do we?” Tom asked, the nervousness evident in his voice

as much as the fatigue.

“Guess not,” Mulder agreed reluctantly. Louder, to the other man, Mulder

hissed. “We’ll do it.”

The other man chuckled. “Jes’ foller my lead,” he said.

The light from the window dimmed with the passage of the sun. Soon the attic

took on the dark gloom of a cave. There was a rattle at the door and the man

who had dragged Mulder to his prison was back. He went around the attic,

lighting kerosene lamps attached to the walls. For a dim second Mulder

considered the fire hazard those lights entailed, but shoved the thought aside

as he realized their plan was about to come to fruition. Plan? What plan? He

could hear Scully’s voice whispering in his ear but he shook his head to dispel

the nagging sense of foreboding.

As he approached, Mulder had a chance to size up the ‘overseer’, as his bunkmate

had called the man. The guard wasn’t quite as tall as Mulder, but what he

lacked in height he more than made up in bulk. He was easily 250 pounds and all

of it looked to be muscle. Mulder noticed that his neck was as thick as a tree

trunk. Not an easy target, to be sure. Mulder swallowed uneasily. He had to

think this through and come up with his part of the plan.

He hefted the chains as silently as he could. The chains were heavy, each link

was about two inches long and too strong for any man to pull apart. He had

about two feet of play between the cuffs around his wrist, with another length

of chain sliding through a ring that tethered the collar at his neck all the way

down to the cuffs at his ankles. It wasn’t going to be easy to get the chain

around that thick neck, but it was possible. All he needed was a distraction .

. . and a whole lot of luck.

As the man made his rounds, Mulder noticed he was leaning over each prisoner,

checking their shackles. It was the break he needed. He waited silently as the

man checked the occupants of the cell next to theirs. Just a few more minutes .

. .

The overseer was there. He sauntered into the small opening of the cell,

stopping only long enough to light the lamp near the window. As he approached,

Mulder’s heartbeat sped up and his hands grew slick with sweat. He kicked the

bunk once to alert the other two men, but he was certain they were as ready as

he was. The overseer checked the man above him and when he was satisfied, he

leaned in to check Mulder’s chains.

Fast as lightning, Mulder hands shot out and wrapped the chain around the

behemoth’s neck. He crossed his arms to tighten the garrote. He was so intent

on his task he didn’t hear the man in the bunk above yelling for all and sundry.

“Buck! Buck! He’s tryin’ to kill Mas’er Henry! Buck, come quick!”

Something fierce latched onto Mulder’s arms and pulled them apart, almost

ripping his shoulder out of its socket. The overseer dropped to his knees, his

hands clutching at his throat. Before Mulder could figure out what was

happening a huge fist smashed into his face, snapping his head back. Before he

succumbed to the darkness he heard a voice.

“Take ‘im out back and whip the bastard till he ain’t movin’ no more!”

4:00 am

It was the darkest part of the night, just before dawn. The stars were all the

illumination in the sky, the moon set early. However, the mansion was ablaze

with light. The Sheriff’s Department had placed portable floodlights all over

the parking area and throughout the house. In addition, the electricity had

been restored and all the rooms in the house were lit. Every speck of dust,

every cobweb in the attic was cast in stark relief. If there were an injured

agent, or even one just trying to hide in the house, someone would have seen it.

Scully’s mind was reeling. She stood on the front porch and looked out to the

woods just beyond the parking lot. Trees ran along both sides of the small

creek, which she noted was past its banks from recent spring rains. She

couldn’t imagine what would have provoked Mulder to run into the woods or the

fields on all sides of this hilltop. It made no sense for him to leave Miller

and take off without consulting anyone. Without waiting for her.

Not for the first time, her mind flashed images of other famous ‘ditches’ —

when she’d been left behind for supposedly noble reasons. Arecibo, Dead Horse,

the middle of the Sargasso Sea . . . She’d lost track long ago of most of the

smaller infractions. But since they’d been together, since they’d spent almost

every waking and sleeping hour in each other’s presence he hadn’t taken off on

her. Well, not as often, and usually with some clue as to where he’d gone.

This time he’d just disappeared. She did remember, back in 2000, a case that

brought them out to the shores of Lake Michigan and into the company of a

murderous ghost. Her mind flashed forward to their recent run-in with a ghostly

presence; one that almost cost her life as well as Mulder’s.

“No more damned ghost stories after this one, Mulder, and I mean it,” she

mumbled to herself in the cold night air. “At least for a while,” she amended,

because as much as she would like to pretend they had any say in their cases,

she knew that wasn’t the truth of the matter. Even though Skinner and the

Bureau would allow them to turn down a case now and then, Mulder’s innate

curiosity always got the better of both of them.

She heard the car tires on gravel before she could see the car. It came into

the bright light of the parking lot and slowed, looking for a place to stop. A

dark blue or black Ford Taurus, federal plates. She groaned inwardly — the

‘cavalry’ had arrived from Springfield. Skinner had made it clear that she

needed help finding her partner, but he never seemed to process that more often

than not the local field agents were less than helpful. She sighed heavily and

made her way down the steps to greet the two men at the picket fence gate.

Their whole demeanor screamed FBI. The taller of the two was at least 6 foot 3,

while his shorter counterpart still had Scully craning her neck. As they

approached stiff-necked and glowering, she could imagine them with dark

sunglasses, even though it was the dark of night.

“Agents,” Scully called, pulling out her own identification. In tandem, the two

men reached into identical pockets and produced their own ID wallets.

“Peters,” announced the taller of the two, a dark skinned and strikingly

handsome man with an expression that would have melted a more timid person. Or

any unattached female in the vicinity.

“Jeffers,” said the other man who was a polar opposite to his partner — fair

skinned, blonde, surfer good looks. They could be bookends, Scully thought to

herself.

“Dana Scully,” she introduced herself, making use of her first name as well as

her last. Out of courtesy she extended her hand to Peters who merely raised his

eyebrow.

“Yeah. We know. So, what’s ol’ Spook gotten himself into this time?” Peters

asked and Jeffers snickered at the joke.

Scully quickly schooled her expression. She took an immediate dislike to both

men, but they weren’t just flesh and blood to her at that point. They were all

the Bureau resources and she was alone in a remote part of the country. As much

as it irked her, she needed them more than they needed her.

“Agent Mulder was called out to investigate the disappearance of a United States

Forestry employee,” she said evenly.

“Look, Scully, we got the fax from AD Skinner. What we need are the details.

What did Spooky step in? Have you two pissed off anyone who might have nabbed

him? Did you two have a fight and now he’s shacked up with a local waitress?

What the hell are we doing standing on a goddamned hill top in the middle of

goddamned nowhere southern Illinois at not even five o’clock in the goddamned

morning?”

“Agent Scully,” called one of the uniformed state troopers from around the side

of the house. “There’s somethin’ you oughta look at back here.”

Flashlight beams danced as she and the trooper ran back around the house, the

two agents close on their heels. When the trooper stopped it was at a post

sticking out of the ground about 5 feet tall with a iron hoop about a half foot

from the top connected to the post with a thick screw. The trooper shone his

light near the bottom of the post.

Scully tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and stared at the circle of light

as it struck the wooden post. “I don’t — ”

“There,” the trooper said, bending down and pointing a finger at a fine line of

liquid running down the grain of the wood. “It’s wet.”

Scully looked up at him wide-eyed and pulled a latex glove out of her pocket.

In a few seconds, she was running one gloved finger down the wood and brought it

forward into the light of her flashlight to examine it. “It’s blood,” she

declared evenly. “Take samples, I want this run against Agent Mulder’s blood

type. It’s on file with the Bureau in DC.”

“But this is fresh, it can’t be over a couple of hours old,” Jeffers pointed

out. “How did he get out here without anybody seeing him?”

“There’ve been troopers and county people out and about this yard all night. No

one’s been out here that we didn’t know about,” the trooper interjected.

At that moment, Scully heard it. At first she thought it was the wind howling

through the branches of the tree just thirty or so yards from where they were

standing. Then, when she heard it again, she realized it was coming from the

house.

The third time she heard it, her blood ran cold. She knew that moan. She’d

heard in times of extreme pain and in the heights of passion. It could only

belong to her partner.

“Mulder!” she whispered and then shouted it loudly. “Mulder!” Leaving the

three men in her dust, she ran toward the house and the door that came off the

small addition to the private residence.

“Agent Scully, that door’s locked,” the trooper called out.

Realizing her mistake, Scully turned on her heel and ran for the front of the

house. She made it long before the other men, even given the difference in

length of strides. She bounded up the steps and into the house without a glance

back to see if anyone followed.

Shoving deputies out of her way, she continued up the steps to the second floor.

In the hallway, she stopped, tried to calm her breathing and the pounding of her

heart. She strained her ears to hear the sound, the moan, again. Nothing.

“Mulder?” she called hesitantly, hopefully. “Mulder, where are you? Mulder, if

you can hear me, answer me. Anything, a grunt. Just tell me which way to go,”

she demanded. She waited again. Silence echoed back to her.

The tears caught her by surprise. Angrily, she swiped at her eyes and turned

her back on the two agents and the trooper who had finally made it to the second

floor. When she got control of her emotions, she turned to face them.

“What did you hear?” asked Jeffers, who gently took her elbow and steered her

toward the steps leading to the attic. At first she refused to sit, but it

seemed that all the fight was leaving her and in the wake of its departure she

felt completely drained of life.

“I heard him,” she said in a voice just above a whisper. “I heard him. He was

here. I don’t know where he is now, but he was here.” She sat there a moment,

chewing on her bottom lip. Suddenly, she sprang to her feet. “A tunnel. There

has to be a tunnel somewhere, under the house. That’s where he is, it’s where

he has to be!”

Mulder was in so much agony, he kept his eyes clamped tight as the overseer

dragged him up the stairs of the house by the shackles on his wrists. The open

cuts on his back flared with white hot fire with each bump and bounce as he hit

the steps one by one. At the top of the stairs, his hip hit the edge of a

baluster and his eyes flew open in pain and surprise.

There, in the dim light that comes just with the dawn, he saw her. Scully. She

was saying something but he couldn’t hear her voice. Her image wavered in the

air, like a mirage. He wanted to call out to her, to warn her, to call out to

her to get help, but he was being dragged up the final set of stairs to the

prison on the third floor. When he blinked the tears from his eyes, she was

gone.

An eternity later, he was thrown in the little closet that was their cell. Tom

was lying on his side on the bottom bunk, staring into space. Mulder crawled

into the second bunk and stifled a cry as his back hit the hard wood.

“Tom,” Mulder whispered after he found a position that didn’t bring tears to his

eyes. “Tom. I think I saw my partner. I think I saw Scully.”

The other man made no response for several minutes. Finally, he drew in a deep

breath. “Hallucination. Or trickery. We’re in Hell, haven’t you figured that

out yet?”

“This ain’t Hell,” came a voice from the next cell. “Ain’t done nuthin’ to

deserve gonna ta Hell.”

“No, it wasn’t a hallucination,” Mulder gritted out, ignoring their companion.

“I saw her. I know she’s here. She’s looking for us.”

“Thought I heard Beckie once. It’s just the mind, playin’ tricks on you,” Tom

bit back angrily.

“She was all shimmering. It was like she was there, but not really there.

Maybe it was a mirage,” Mulder said with a heavy sigh. “But I felt her. I know

Scully was there. She was calling my name but I couldn’t hear her voice.”

“It’s the pain. Does things to the head,” the man in the next cell said.

“What if — what if we’re here and she’s here but we’re in two different planes

of existence?” Mulder mused aloud.

“Different — what? What kinda nonsense is that?” Tom demanded, stopping to

cough. “We’re here but we’re not? You hit your head on the way up them steps,

Agent Mulder?”

“No, listen, when I came into this house Miller and I checked the attic. There

was nothing up here — no chains, definitely no men. Now the place is full of

people. How is that?”

“We aren’t in the same place,” Tom answered.

“No! We’re not in the same ‘time’!” Mulder replied quickly. “We just have to

figure out how to get back to our time.”

Tom coughed again, this time the sound was wet and wheezing. “Well, when you

figure that out, you let me know,” he said derisively.

Act III scene 1

She had the bearing of a woman of wealth and power. Mulder caught sight of her

as he curled in a corner of his bunk, trying to keep his aching back from

touching the unforgiving wood surface. She stepped around the attic room as if

she didn’t notice the squalor or the stench. When the man they’d called ‘Buck’

moved toward her, the smile on her face lit the dark corners of the room. She

put her arms around his neck and kissed him fervently. Mulder closed his eyes,

thoughts of Scully in his arms warring with the image of a woman in silk and

hoop skirts embracing a man barely clothed in tattered garments.

His eyes were still closed when he heard the two approach. He feigned sleep.

It wasn’t hard to do, his back was screaming but his body was so tired he

probably would have fallen asleep standing up. On reflection, that was most

likely the only position he would be able to sleep. Every time his back hit the

wood, he was jolted from what little peace his slumber could give him.

They were whispering. Part of him wanted to listen closely to what they were

saying. Part of him wanted the entire experience, hell, the whole trip out to

Illinois to be a very bad nightmare so he could wake up in Scully’s arms and

have her tell him he was going in late in the morning because she wanted him to

get a little more sleep.

He decided to ignore the intruders until they moved closer into the cell. He

cracked an eye open just a slit and watched Buck nudge Tom with his foot. The

younger man groaned in pain. It relieved Mulder that Tom was responding at all,

he’d begun to wonder if the engineer was unconscious.

“They’re white,” the woman commented, as if noting that there might be rain

later in the day. Buck grunted in agreement. She looked up at the tall man

with a coy smile. “Come, we don’t have much time,” she purred and took Buck by

the arm, leading him to the far end of the attic.

When they were far enough out of earshot, Mulder leaned over to check on Tom.

He found the young man’s eyes open, staring into space. He had to get him

talking.

“Who was that?” Mulder asked in a hoarse whisper.

“Mrs. Crenshaw,” Tom replied with a tired smirk. “She and Buck — well, let’s

just say Buck has lots of duties around here, some of them nicer than others.”

“Mrs. Crenshaw?” Mulder repeated. “As in — ”

“Crenshaw’s wife. Her family had money and lost it in some land deal. She

thought she was gonna marry into society because Crenshaw was up and coming. He

built this place for her. Guess this wasn’t the exciting life she’d hoped for,”

Tom said with a faint twinkle in his eyes before turning serious. “Be careful

around her. I’ve seen her get more than one man whipped for just lookin’ at

her. And if Buck gets to do the job — those men never came back.”

“So Buck — ”

“Buck is an overseer, just like Harold. Crenshaw doesn’t have him on the same

payroll,” Tom tried to explain.

“How did you find out all of this?” Mulder asked.

“Been listenin’ to some of the talk up here. Plus, I grew up in these parts.

Crenshaws have been a topic of gossip since they moved here. The fact they were

dead didn’t make them any less interestin’ to the most of us.”

Mulder dozed for a while, he had no idea how much time had passed. He heard

footsteps and looked out to see Mrs. Crenshaw coming back to ward them,

straightening her skirt and adjusting it in the reflection of the windowpane.

She walked over to their cell and peered in at Tom on the bottom bunk. She put

her hand out, touching the young man and flinched when she made contact. “He’s

feverish,” she said over her shoulder to Buck, who was standing right behind

her. “How long have they been here?”

“That one, two nights. This one just got here.”

She turned to speak directly to Buck, disregarding Mulder, who was staring right

at her. “They can’t stay here,” she said firmly.

“We could dump the bodies in the woods,” Buck offered.

She shook her head. “No, it would just lead to more questions. Two white men,

whipped, dead. There would be an investigation of some sort. There’s enough

suspicion in town as it is. Besides, our guest will be arriving soon. Finding

them here would be an embarrassment to Mr. Crenshaw. We have to do something

quickly.”

“What do you want me to do?” Buck asked. She started to answer, cast a glance

down at Mulder and then moved Buck away. Mulder could hear them murmuring, but

couldn’t make out any words.

Act III scene 2

Mulder had drifted off to sleep, so he was startled when a hand landed on his

shoulder. In the dim light of the cell he could make out the huge dark form

looming over him. A second large hand came down over his mouth and he struggled

for a moment before the hand covered his nose and he was forced to be still.

“Quiet,” ordered a voice in the darkness. “Be quiet.”

Mulder nodded silently and the pressure on his mouth and nose lessened. He

watched in silence as the large form moved into a slant of light from a far

lantern and he could see its face. Buck.

“What — ”

“Silence, damn it,” Buck hissed. He reached into his pocket and Mulder watched

in amazement as the larger man produced a set of skeleton keys and deftly

unlocked the shackles around Mulder’s throat, wrists and ankles. In a few

seconds, he’d accomplished the same feat for Tom. Tom, unlike Mulder, was now

totally unresponsive.

“You have to carry him,” Buck directed, jerking his head down to the bottom bunk

and Tom’s still mass.

“Is he dead?” Mulder breathed. It was taking him some time to crawl down from

his bunk, his back was aching and his legs where wobbly.

“No. He’s alive. You have to get out of here.”

Mulder pulled Tom into a sitting position and hoisted the other man’s arm across

his shoulders. Pain licked up his back as the action pulled torn flesh, but

that didn’t deter him. A tiny voice in his mind that sounded almost like Scully

cautioned him and he stopped.

“Wait. Why are you doing this? Is this a trap? Are you going to kill us for

trying to escape?”

Buck looked at him sourly. “Mas’er Harold’s down in the main house, play acting

as a servant. The Missus wants you gone. If you were found up here, there’d be

Hell to pay. Nobody minds what happens to one of us, but if they found out

about you — ”

“Servant? Why, what’s happening?”

“Someone’s coming. Even Crenshaw has overseers,” Buck snorted at his own joke.

Tom started to rouse and moan. Buck clamped a hand over his mouth. “Keep him

quiet, or I will have to kill him,” he warned Mulder. The agent nodded mutely

and struggled with Tom’s weight a moment before following Buck to the window.

“How are we supposed to get down?” Mulder asked when Buck came to an abrupt

stop. The agent looked out the window and down, then faced Buck, who was

smiling.

“You can’t expect us to jump! The fall would kill us!” Mulder sneered.

“You dumb bastard,” Buck said with the shake of his head. “That drainpipe has

carried twice your skinny asses. Just grab hold and shimmy down.” To

demonstrate his point, Buck leaned out the window, took hold of the guttering

and proceeded to climb down as if it were a tall tree.

Mulder gapped at the man’s head as it got farther and farther away down the

pipe. When Buck hit the ground and waved up to him, he had no choice.

“Scully, you’re missing another display of my youthful agility,” he muttered as

he hoisted Tom onto his shoulder. He would have to take the younger man in a

fireman’s carry and even then it would be a dangerous feat. “Tom, I’m really

glad you’re a health nut,” Mulder told the unconscious engineer. “Otherwise,

this journey would be all over before we even got started.”

It was a tight squeeze getting out of the window, but they managed. Mulder was

surprised to find the sill provided a decent foothold as he reached for the

drainpipe. He was pleasantly amazed to note that the gutter pipe was made of

cast iron and very sturdy. That didn’t make climbing with 160 pounds of dead

weight any easier, but at least he didn’t have the worry that the pipe would

collapse as they crawled down.

When he got to the second floor, he realized their proximity to the open window.

He could see, in the corner of his eyes serving girls coming and going out of

one of the rooms. He saw Crenshaw’s wife, dressed in a beautiful green gown,

enter the hallway and start for the stairs. For a second, she turned and

glanced out the window. She met Mulder’s eyes and smiled. She turned and

descended down the stairs without saying a word.

Buck was on the ground shooting Mulder glares when the agent faltered and almost

dropped Tom. The engineer’s body seemed to grow heavier with each step, but

Mulder doubled his efforts.

If felt like an eternity to Mulder before they finally reached the ground.

Mulder’s back was bleeding again; he could feel the sticky wetness and felt the

pull as it clung to his shirt. Adrenaline was keeping the pain at bay.

Carefully he lowered Tom to his feet and leaned him against the pipe. Buck

grabbed Mulder’s arm and shoved him against the clapboard of the house. “Stay

here,” he hissed and melted into the darkness around the corner of the

structure.

“Tom? Tom, can you hear me?” Mulder asked, trying to rouse his companion.

The young man’s eyes flittered open. When he realized he was standing, or

rather leaning, and felt the cool air on his face, he searched around for

Mulder.

“Where are we?” he asked in a hoarse rasp.

“We’re outside the house. We’re going to get out of here. My car was parked

out front. If we can just get out that way — ”

Buck’s sudden appearance from around the corner stopped further conversation.

“You go straight to the woods, down there,” the big man growled, pointing to the

woods to the south of the house. “Don’t go near the front of the house.

People’s comin’ — there are carriages up there. If you don’t wanna be caught

again, go that way.”

“Why are you helping us?” Mulder asked again, still harboring suspicions that

they were being lured into a trap.

“Missus and me, we don’t want no trouble. Not for old Crenshaw and not for us.

Understand?” He towered over Mulder, a menacing look to his eyes.

“Understood,” Mulder said with a nod. “What about water?”

“Plenty in that stream you have to cross,” Buck said with the hint of a chuckle.

“You’ll have all the water you could ask for in just a few minutes. Now,

hightail afore I change my mind and just kill ya for the fun of it!”

Over in the east, the deep purple was just beginning to give way to a lighter

blue. Mulder knew they didn’t have much time to make the woods before someone

would be up and would notice their escape. Hoisting Tom on his shoulder again,

he started around the house and down the gentle slope to the stand of trees.

Horses hoofs on the dirt path to the house caused him to press against the

clapboard. The sound of carriage wheels, groaning under their burden seemed

horribly close to Mulder’s ear. Cautiously, he lowered Tom to the ground so he

could creep along the building and see if they might be detected.

Torches were lit at the front of the mansion, lighting the circular drive up to

the house. Two horsemen and a carriage had just pulled up directly in front of

the stone sidewalk that led to the front porch. Mulder saw a big bulk of a man,

easily near six feet and more than 200 pounds, standing at the gate at the end

of the sidewalk. As the driver to the carriage jumped down and opened the small

leather door, the man at the gate almost danced with excitement.

It took a moment for the occupant of the carriage to exit and Mulder’s position

was such that the carriage door blocked most of his view. Finally, the occupant

stepped forward, adjusting a tall ‘stovepipe’ hat before extending his hand

toward the man at the gate. In the profile cast by the torches, Mulder got a

picture of the occupant of the carriage worthy of the front page for any

newspaper in the country.

It was the 16th President of the United States. Abraham Lincoln had come to

visit the Crenshaw Mansion.

“Mr. Lincoln, I trust the ride down from Springfield wasn’t too difficult,”

spoke the jovial man at the gate.

“It will be a far sight easier when we get the railroads completed, Mr.

Crenshaw. A far sight easier,” said Lincoln. Now that they stood together,

Mulder could see that Lincoln was much taller than Crenshaw, taller than any

other man standing near him.

“Well, let’s get inside and I’ll take you to your room. You can rest and then

we’ll have some breakfast. I’ve taken the liberty of contacting some of the

other businessmen in the area in regards to your campaign. They’re very excited

about . . .” The rest of Crenshaw’s words were lost as the men, Lincoln,

Crenshaw, the riders and the driver all entered the house.

Mulder leaned against the clapboard, trying to process what he’d just seen. He

remembered Bob Miller telling him that Lincoln was supposed to have visited

Crenshaw, but to have the man who was credited with freeing the slaves right

under the same roof as a slave trader was almost too extreme a possibility!

He waited until he was sure that all the men were inside the house before he

went to Tom. The younger man was coming around, obviously in pain. Mulder put

his hand over Tom’s mouth to keep him from moaning too loud and alerting the

occupants of the mansion. Finally the agent slung the engineer’s arm over his

shoulder and the two started the trek to the trees and hopefully, freedom.

They hadn’t gone far when Mulder’s ears picked up on something coming from the

direction of the house. He stopped for a moment, almost causing Tom to slip

from his grasp. The jarring was enough to snap the younger man into full

consciousness.

“What is it?” Tom asked.

“I thought . . . ” Mulder was silent until he heard it again, confirming his

worst fears. He looked over at the engineer, realizing that his companion had

heard it too.

“Dogs,” they said in unison.

Panic swept across both men’s faces. Mulder looked around frantically, trying

to find a good hiding place or even an easier way to get through the trees. Tom

tugged on his hand and pointed toward the water.

“The creek. We’ll walk the creek bed. Hopefully they’ll lose the scent.”

Mulder nodded immediately and headed off toward the creek.

Act III scene 2

Crenshaw Mansion

5:04 am

Scully stood on the top step of the porch and looked out into the darkness. Off

to the east, she could see the deep purple letting go to the lighter blue of the

morning sky. One star shone brightly on the horizon and she offered up a prayer

for her partner. She was about to go back into the house when she heard another

set of tires on the gravel drive.

Two minivans with Sheriff’s Department markings pulled into the parking area.

Quickly, the drivers of each van jumped out and released the occupants of the

back cargo areas. Four tan bloodhounds, tails wagging and tongues lapping,

tumbled over each other in their excitement to get on with the chase.

Scully felt a hand on her elbow and looked up into the kind eyes of the local

Sheriff. “We tried this when Tom first disappeared, but the trail had gone

cold. It’s the best we can do until the State Police can get a helicopter up at

full light to search the fields.”

She nodded, but could tell even the Sheriff thought it was a futile attempt.

“Do you need anything?” she asked.

“If you have some item of clothing, maybe something in his rental car?”

“If one of your men doesn’t mind popping the lock on the trunk, I’m sure I can

find something,” she said, walking to the abandoned car with the Lariat sticker

at the far end of the parking lot.

In minutes she had rummaged through Mulder’s bag, the bag she’d helped him pack

just two nights before, and found his Hoya’s sweatshirt with the cut off

sleeves. She’d often threatened to turn it into a dust cloth because it never

seemed to lose the smell of sweat, even after repeated launderings. He’d always

managed to dig it out of the wash and hide it before she had a chance to find

her scissors. She caressed the natted fleece for the briefest of moments and

then handed the shirt to the Sheriff.

“This should work,” he said and smiled in encouragement. “We still have the

ball cap Beckie gave us that Tom wore, so that’s all we need.” He turned to go

over to the dogs and their handlers, but turned back. “Did I hear you talking

to your boss in DC?”

Scully was chewing on her lip, deep in thought, but his question got her

attention. “Yes. He got a call through to the Director. The St. Louis office

will be sending a team out this morning. They should be here around 10.”

The Sheriff smiled. “We haven’t had this big of a posse since Jesse James used

Cave-in-Rock for a hideout one winter,” he smiled. “We’ll find ’em, Agent

Scully. Don’t you fret.”

All she could do was nod and plaster on a hopeful expression. It made her face

feel like it was cast in cement.

It was painful to stand and wait, but Skinner had instructed her to be available

to the St. Louis agents when they arrived. She watched the dogs and their four

handlers canvass the grounds of the mansion and then saw them perk up the ears

and head in the direction of the creek several yards from the house. She pulled

in a deep breath and watched them, sending up another silent prayer.

9:54 am

She’d sat on the top step of the porch steps and dozed for a few moments. The

tires on the gravel startled her awake. The cavalry, such as it was, had

arrived. Four men wearing FBI jackets emerged from the Crown Vic and headed

toward her. One broke ranks and headed straight for her. She did a quick

double take and stood up as recognition hit.

“Marty? Marty Neil?” she said, first in a whisper and then louder. “Marty?”

The man was standing directly in front of her, a big grin on his face. Glancing

over his shoulder before turning back to her, he gave her a wink and offered his

hand before pulling her into a quick hug. “Dana. Been a long time.”

“Marty, I thought you were in New York, foreign counter terrorism. Of course

that was years ago.”

“Nine-eleven shake up. It was decided that the Midwest needed some expertise in

that area, too. Been in St. Louis almost four years. I’m regional SAC,” he

said, a proud smile on his face. “And you. You’re still with . . . Mulder?”

She could tell he was about to call her partner by his nickname, but thought

better of it. “You two have been partners — how long now? Some kind of Bureau

record, isn’t it?”

Scully dipped her head, allowing her hair to hide her face for a second.

“Twelve years now,” she said, lifting her chin and meeting his challenge.

“That’s, uh, that’s great. I heard about some of the work you’ve done.”

“Good reports, I hope,” she shot back.

“Oh, yeah, definitely. Well, mostly. Say, I got the file from DC, but maybe

you could fill us in a little better? I brought Starbucks in a thermos. You

still drink latte, right?”

Somewhere in southern Illinois

10:14 am

For a while, the cold water of the creek rejuvenated both men. As the day drew

on and the air grew hot and humid, their strength began to sap. Mulder was now

almost carrying Tom and he wasn’t in much better shape himself.

“We have to rest a minute,” he told the younger man. “Do you hear them?”

“Nah, I think we lost ’em. Look, if we follow this creek for just a little

more, the Cache River that runs past here. We can follow that further south.”

The two stumbled up the creek bed to dry land, falling to their knees. Mulder’s

legs were wobbly from running and dodging the rocks at the bottom of the stream.

They were in a few trees, but just beyond a couple of cottonwoods, the day was

heating up and the field of foot high corn near them already seemed to shimmer

in the heat, waving in the gentle breeze.

Mulder pulled off his shirt and tore it into strips. Dipping one in the creek,

he wiped his own face and then wet another and handed it to Tom to do the same.

“Where are we going, Tom?” Mulder asked, concerned that they were just running

but had no plan. They still had to figure out how to get back to their own

time. He had to find a way back to Scully.

“There’s some rock formations just a few miles from here. Lots of caves, rocky

land. We can hide there while we figure out how to get into town,” answered the

engineer.

“Tom, town may not be like it was a few days ago. Town might be like the house,

170 years ago,” Mulder cautioned softly.

“Look, all’s I know is Beckie can find me if we get someplace with a phone.”

“That’s just what I’m saying, Tom. Back at the house, they didn’t have phones

back then.”

That seemed to only anger the young man. “You got a better idea?”

Mulder stared out into the cornfield. It didn’t look any different than

cornfields he’d seen on any of his several visits to this part of the country.

But had farming really changed that much in 170 years? Without an obvious piece

of evidence, say a John Deere tractor plowing a field or an SUV parked in a

farmhouse driveway, how would you know what century you were in down here in the

deep rural Midwest? It all looked ageless.

“How far did you say these caves were?”

Tom smiled. “Rest up. Just a couple of miles, but the last couple will take a

bit of climbin’.”

Crenshaw Mansion

1:15 pm

The Sheriff’s Department had sent out lunches, bags of burgers and fries from

McDonald’s, but Scully hadn’t touched hers. She’d managed to down half a cup of

latte, but eventually left the cup somewhere and couldn’t remember where she’d

put it.

The private residence had been opened up and now served as the command post.

The kitchen island held topographical maps of the area, pictures of both Tom and

Mulder were taped to the doors of the cabinets. Scully stood in the living room

area, away from the bustle of agents and local law enforcement, feeling adrift

and totally useless. The Sheriff’s walkie-talkie squawked to life but she only

marginally listened. So far, all reports from the field had been negative.

“That’s great! Give me your coordinates again; we’ll be out there fast as we

can. No, just leave one man behind, you others go on ahead. This might be the

lead we’re lookin’ for.”

The Sheriff’s words grabbed her attention and she was next to the man in a

flash. “They found something,” she said breathless.

“A neck tie. The tag said it was some shop in Georgetown.”

“Mulder,” Scully whispered. “I’m going with you.”

“I figured you would. We’ll take my Jeep. It’s got four-wheel drive.”

They took mostly back roads and Scully was amazed at the switchback curves and

deep hills and valleys. Illinois had never seemed to have much landscaping;

certainly not up near Tuscola where they’d encountered a phantom panther just a

few months back. Here the landscape almost resembled the foothills of the

Appalachians that she knew in Maryland and Virginia.

When they went off road, she was very happy to have the four-wheel drive and

even happier to leave the driving to the Sheriff. He plowed along farm paths

and finally came to a creek where she spotted one of his men.

“I gave Brutus to John, figured they’d need him on the trail,” the deputy told

the Sheriff to explain his missing bloodhound. “Here’s the tie.” He held the

scrap of silk out to the Sheriff, but Scully’s hand snatched it from him.

“It’s Mulder’s. He was wearing it the last time I saw him.”

The Sheriff looked around. “We’re a good nine miles from the house. If that

blood can account for anything — ” He gave Scully a furtive glance and didn’t

finish the thought.

“How did he get this far, injured?” Scully said quietly. “And is he alone?”

“We found some footprints over there. Looks like he was following the creek,

like you thought, Sheriff.” The deputy directed them to a fallen log just on

the edge of the creek. “There’re two sets of prints. Those are work boots one

of ’em’s wearing. The other set appears to be leather, no tread to speak of.”

“The leather shoes are Mulder’s. He had on his wingtips. But I don’t know

about the work boots,” Scully mused.

“Could that be who took him?” the Sheriff asked. “But we didn’t find any of

those prints back at the house.”

“Wouldn’t Tom Coleman wear boots like those?” Scully asked. “And look at the

imprints. They’re both struggling, but the work boots are fainter impressions

and dragging the toes. Either the person is very light — ”

“Or your partner is helping him along.”

The Sheriff and Scully exchanged worried looks. “We best get moving. We might

be able to catch up to the dogs now,” the Sheriff said. The deputy hopped in

the back of the Jeep and they were off.

Act III scene 3

Gallatin County, Illinois

4:30 pm

Mulder had been so concentrated on the path before him that he hadn’t had time

to look around at the spectacular scenery surrounding them. Tom was as good as

his word, knowing where trails were that led them over hill, dale and skirted

large rock formations. Their path left Mulder almost dizzy but finally, just as

Tom’s energy seemed at its lowest point, they topped a crest and saw the cave.

When Mulder thought of ‘cave’ he assumed it was a hole in the side of a hill or

mountain, like he’d found in Tennessee, home of the gigantic man-eating

mushroom. But these caves were really indentations under huge granite boulders,

little more than low roofed shelters. It took some time to scramble down the

hill to the nearest cave, but after several missteps and an almost twisted

ankle, they arrived at their destination.

“This is it, this is as far as I go,” Tom gasped as he slid out from under

Mulder’s arm and to the rock floor.

“I’ll see about getting us some water,” Mulder said tiredly. There was a

trickle of water coming from a crack in the ceiling of their cave and he made

for it. Once there he’d cupped handfuls of the precious commodity into his

mouth to quench his own thirst, he realized he really didn’t have much to carry

any water back. He quickly soaked a corner of his tattered shirt to take back

to Tom.

Tom wasn’t conscious when Mulder checked on him. The agent shook his head in

frustration and then looked around. It was getting close to evening and a cool

wind had blown in. The day had been hot, but the night could be a problem and

they had nothing to keep them warm. He thought briefly about starting a fire,

but was concerned that the wood smoke might alert their pursuers to their

whereabouts. They weren’t much better off here than they had been walking,

except they had some time to rest.

He was so tired. He hadn’t slept at all the night before and between the

journey and carrying Tom, his back felt on fire. He sat down next to where the

young engineer was sprawled on a rock. When his back hit the cool, rough

surface of the cave wall Mulder winced, but gradually accepted the small amount

of comfort it afforded. Maybe if he just closed his eyes for a moment he could

collect his thoughts.

The sun was further behind the hills when he awoke. Something he’d heard had

jarred his senses and brought him out of a deep slumber. He looked over at Tom,

putting a hand to the young man’s forehead. Fever radiated off the engineer’s

pale skin. Mulder bit his lip and thought about getting more water just to try

and cool Tom down a bit. But then the sound that woke him came again. Barking

— off in the distance but coming closer.

Mulder had to do something! They were going to be found. Searching the ledge

cave for any fissure big enough to hold both of them, he found only a few

boulders at the far end of the indent. Maybe he could hide Tom and lead the

dogs away from the sick and injured man. It was all he could think of on such

short notice.

It took almost all his strength to pull Tom’s senseless body over behind the

rocks. He hoped it was enough cover. He walked out of the cave and listened

again. It was hard to judge exactly which direction the dogs were coming, the

hills and rock formations made for natural echo chambers. The deep shadows from

the setting sun made it even more difficult to decide on a direction to run. He

saw a rise with a huge oval shaped boulder just a few hundred yards away from

the cave and sprinted off toward it.

The dogs were close now. He could almost hear their panting in between the

howls and the barking. He imagined he could hear their paws clawing at the

rocks for purchase. He made it to the boulder and was looking back, trying to

see if he could spot the dogs. His foot caught on a tree root and he went head

over heels, but instead of hitting forest floor, he kept falling, tumbling over

and over until all was darkness.

Ferne Clyffe State Park

Just outside Goreville, Illinois

6:00 pm

As they cleared the ridge, Scully was scrambling to keep up with the dogs and

their handlers. All four animals were brown and black balls of pure energy,

excited by the strength of the scent and the end of their hunt. Anxiety was

high among the humans. Scully had been calling her partner’s name as she

climbed down the rocks, but the wind kept stealing it away.

The dogs stopped under a ledge and sniffed. One grabbed something in its mouth

and the handler took it gently. “Looks like a piece torn off a shirt,” he said,

handing the cloth over to Scully.

“There’s blood on it,” Scully noted, biting her lip.

As she spoke the words another one of the dogs rushed over to a boulder at the

far end of the overhang and started pawing at the ground. Its handler looked

behind the rock with a flashlight and then frantically flagged the rest of the

group. “I found one of ’em!” he shouted.

A portable stretcher materialized from some one’s backpack and Scully hurried

over to see who had been found. She had to choke back an anguished cry when she

discovered not her partner, but the man they had originally been sent to

recover, Tom Coleman. Swallowing her fear for Mulder, she quickly examined the

engineer.

“Get him on the stretcher and get a thermal blanket over him. Notify the

chopper of our whereabouts and that they need to get this man to the nearest

trauma center. He’s in shock, feverish, looks like he’s been hit pretty hard in

the head. If I’m not mistaken, he’s been horse whipped.”

“Horse whipped?” questioned one of the rescuers, but hurried to help perform the

task of getting the injured man on the stretcher. As they moved him, Tom began

to rouse.

“Dogs. . . gotta keep movin’ . . . can’t let ’em . . .” The rest of his words

were lost in his delirium.

“Mr. Coleman, where is my partner?” Scully asked gently, hoping the young man

would have some connection to reality and could point them in the right

direction.

“Overseers,” Tom muttered and fell back into unconsciousness.

The Sheriff touched Scully’s shoulder. “We’re losing the light, Agent,” he said

firmly.

“He has to be here!” she spit out. “He would never have left an injured man

behind. Not unless he couldn’t help it.”

One of the dogs had broken loose from its handler and had run to a boulder some

distance away. The bloodhound was now standing on top of the boulder, barking

at whatever lay on the other side. Scully took one look at the Sheriff and they

both hurried after the dog.

She thought about climbing up the rock, but the Sheriff pointed to a way to get

around it. As she cleared the edge of the rock and peered down into the ravine

hidden beyond it, her heart jumped to her throat.

There on the forest floor, unmoving, was her partner.

Epilogue

Massac Memorial Hospital

Metropolis, Illinois

The next day

10:13 am

Mulder was dozing in his hospital bed when Scully came in carrying another

bouquet of flowers.

“Did I die and you just haven’t had the heart to tell me?” he asked as she

placed them next to the other four or five bouquets already decorating the

windowsill.

“No, it’s just Southern Illinois hospitality,” Scully said with a grin. “These

are from Tom’s parents.”

“How is he doing?” Mulder asked, wincing as he reached for the cup of water on

his tray table. His back still hurt but the pain meds were helping

tremendously.

“Better. His fever is down. Some of the cuts and welts on his back had become

infected and he had a touch of pneumonia, but he’ll be back on his feet in a few

weeks. He and Beckie finally announced their engagement, so everyone was pretty

happy. The flowers by the wall are from Beckie, by the way.”

“Did you get a chance . . .”

She held up her hand to stop his question. “Mulder, after ensuring that you

weren’t in a coma and weren’t going to die on me, I went back to the mansion.

Neill and his men had all but dismantled the attic. There were no signs of any

of the men you told me about, not any chains, shackles, iron collars — ”

“Nothing? What about the bunk where Tom was kept? There should have been blood

there.”

“I’m don’t know what to tell you, Mulder. There wasn’t any blood anywhere.”

“But you did find my blood on the whipping post,” he reminded her.

“Yes, the blood we found out there was a match to you. Are you sure someone

didn’t just hit you in the head and you hallucinated — ” She stopped her

question when she saw the set of his jaw.

“Scully, I didn’t imagine being whipped. I have the cuts on my back to prove

that. And what about this?” he asked, holding his hospital issued gown out to

expose a dark bruise at his throat where he wore the iron collar. “I suppose I

hallucinated that, too, huh?”

“But Mulder, I was there all night. I never left that house, except to go out

on the porch. And I saw nothing.”

“But you heard me. You admitted to me that you heard me call your name. And

you heard me moaning in pain. You aren’t suggesting that you were

hallucinating, are you, Scully? Because you weren’t hit on the head.”

“Mulder, I’m just saying it’s hard for me to believe that you were lost in

another time, that the 1840s and 2005 crossed for a while.” He folded his arms

defiantly, grimacing when he pulled the healing cuts on his back. Scully shook

her head. He wasn’t going to be dissuaded this time, but then she reminded

herself that was nothing new. “Look, however you accomplished it, you did find

Tom Coleman and return him to his loved ones.”

“And you found me and did the same,” he said, reaching for her hand. She

allowed him to pull her next to him on the narrow hospital bed, happy to be in

his arms. “So, when can we go home?”

“Doctor wants to keep you one more night for observation. I have us on a 2:30

flight out of Paducah tomorrow afternoon.” He scooted over a bit so she had

more room. “So you were invisible to us all that time, huh, Mulder?” she asked

as she put her head down on his chest. The rhythm of his heartbeat was a salve

to her own emotional cuts and bruises from the last 24 hours.

“A hundred and sixty years ago men were gathered up and sold back into slavery

in a free state, Scully. No one noticed then, either. Maybe sometimes evil is

just invisible.”

She nodded, digesting that thought. After a moment she pulled up enough to look

in his eyes. “You really saw Abraham Lincoln,” she challenged.

“Stove pipe, beard and all,” he replied.

“The Great Emancipator spent the night in a mansion where slaves were being

housed and sold. What does that say, Mulder?”

“I’m pretty certain he didn’t know it was happening, Scully. As for what it

says, I would think it says evil is everywhere. And it’s up to the righteous to

be constantly on guard,” he told her. He kissed her softly on the crown of her

head. “It says that we will always have work to do, Scully. No matter what

happens next, we must always be vigilant and look where no one else dares.”

the end

Author’s notes: There is a lot of factual information in this story. I want to

acknowledge some articles I dug up on the internet about the Crenshaw Mansion at

Hickory Hill. The Daily Egyptian, fall 2003 edition has a wonderful article on

the house.

http://newshound.de.siu.edu/fall03/stories/storyReader$539

Clarence Bonnell gives a nicely detailed account of the Crenshaws and the house

on the illinoishistory.com site

http://www.illinoishistory.com/osh-loststory.html

Bill Furry did a lengthy article for the Illinois Times in 1997

http://www.illinoishistory.com/itosh.html

And finally, the house was featured in Brian Roesch’s Haunted Illinois (scroll

down to ‘Shawneetown’)

http://www.webspawner.com/users/hhaauunntteeddillino/

But last and certainly not least, I have to thank the former owners of the

house, the Sisk family, who gave me a guided tour of the premises. It was when

I first saw the bed that Lincoln supposedly slept in (just as I describe it

here) that I got the inspiration for this story.

PS, many of the pictures used for the illustrations are pictures of the actual

house and the surrounding county.

TITLE: ‘Eye Of The Beholder’

AUTHOR: XSketch

EMAIL: XSketch@hotmail.com

WEBSITE: http://thesketchfiles.bravehost.com

SPOILERS: Oh, everything up to Je Souhaite and all the way thru to

the middle of VS12 is up for targeting 😉

RATING: R (Strong violence, gory scenes and occasional language.)

CATEGORY: X, S, MSR, A, ST, MT

SUMMARY: Do you see it or don’t you? Reality or hallucination?

Is a middle-aged, disabled man or an unknown creature committing

sporadic murders in a small Illinois town? Mulder and Scully

arrive to find the answers, but will they be able to wrap up the

case before they’re next on the menu?

FEEDBACK: It would make me the happiest person in the whole world!!!

DISCLAIMER: *sigh* Still not mine, which I guess means everything

you recognise from the show belongs to CC, 1013, Fox, yadda yadda

yadda – no copyright infringement intended. Kenny Andrews belongs

to the talented duo of Susan Proto & Vickie Moseley, and is being

given an airing here with their permission because at least they

know how to share their toys!!! 🙂

ARCHIVE: Two weeks exclusive to IMTP, and then I’d be honored for

you to archive it as long as you let me know 🙂

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Written for the Virtual Season 12. Biggest thanks and

hugs to Vickie and Lisa for looking this over, checking it and

encouraging me – if it hadn’t been for the poking, this would probably

be sitting on my computer only half done! LOL

DEDICATION: In fond memory of my dear friend Karin Crabb – this was

out of your area of interest, but you were always supportive.

You’ll be missed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

==========

TEASER

==========

SOLUS, ILLINOIS

APRIL 17th, 2005

Everybody thought the guy was crazy, and they always questioned Pitt

as to why he was still friends with the loony. But as high up in

the social ladder Greg Pitt might be, he wasn’t that small-minded

and he certainly didn’t listen to what the folks had to say in this

neighborhood (at least, not for several years now), so whether his

friend was shouting a load of mumbo-jumbo or not all the time was

none of their business. Besides, it wasn’t right to pick on a

blind guy.

Greg Pitt and Bobby Randolf had grown up together as the bestest of

friends, with similar interests and hobbies – they’d even wound up

working at the same digital graphic designs company twelve years

ago. But since the car accident that had killed his wife last

Christmas Eve, Bobby had drastically begun to lose his sight. He

still had some peripheral vision, but only to a very limited extent.

That wasn’t why everybody thought he was crazy, though.

*Don’t you see it?*

Despite his disability, Randolf…saw things that weren’t actually

there. No matter how much the members of the small community told

him he was mistaken, he would swear blue murder that there was a

big vase of flowers, or a fruit bowl or something of the like there.

*Ooh, maybe the ghost of the fruit bowl is coming to haunt

yooooooooooouuu!* Jerry Richter at the local gas station had teased.

Greg wasn’t sure to be more annoyed at their rudeness or saddened

by the state his friend’s mind had deteriorated to to bring on such

hallucinations.

“I saw it again this morning,” Bobby suddenly called out.

Snapping out of his own deep thoughts, Pitt looked up from the two

cups of coffee he was making out in Randolf’s kitchen. “Say again?”

“I saw it again!”

Just recently, claims of non-existent, inanimate objects had moved

on to a large, black, panther-like creature stalking the streets of

Solus. Of course, nobody had seen it and no-one believed him, but

he continued to warn them of its threatening presence nevertheless.

“Ah,” Greg sighed, carrying the drinks into the living room and

putting his down on the table before carefully handing the other to

his friend. “You got it? There. Well, you sure it wasn’t just a

shadow? Maybe a trick of the light…Even your doc said that

sometimes your brain fills in for what your peepers don’t see, so

maybe your imagination–”

“I know what I *saw*, Greg. It was there…slowly, *slowly*

walking up the sidewalk right outside my window there, fixing its

eyes on anybody that passed. I’m tellin’ ya, it’s planning

something a–”

“‘Planning something’, Bob? Come on, even if it were real, no

creature or whatever it is you think you’re seeing has some…uh…

calculated plan laid out.” Pitt paused and finally sat down,

briefly glancing out at the street through the window on his left.

“Now, how about we forget about it and get on with our game…”

His voice trailed off into a sigh as Bobby shook his head

dismissively. “Bob, look, I know you’re still mourning after what

happened to Jess, and losing your sight must really be the final

blow, but this ain’t healthy. Do you like hearing ev’rybody call

you crazy? I mean, you go ’round telling these stories, and how

the hell you expect people to ever listen to you I don’t know!”

Randolf frowned and found it hard to keep control of the anger

boiling within him. For thirty-seven years – and, more

importantly, over the past five months – Greg Pitt had been the

only person he could really trust and depend upon. And now, with

the whole village literally turning against him, he had hoped that

to still be the case. Maybe it truly wasn’t, though, after all…

He shook his head to try shake that thought process away – this was

his best friend for god’s sake! – but it refused to budge, and as

tears stung at his eyes, he turned his head away to face the large

window to his right.

And there it was, stalking the street as always. But this time, it

actually stopped and looked directly back at him.

“Are you listenin’ to me, Bo–”

“Shhh.” Fear pulsing through his veins; sweat beading his skin;

terror widening his almost-sightless eyes that refused to turn

away, Randolf shot out a hand to his side to touch his friend’s

forearm. “I-It’s b-b-back…”

There had always been doubt and disbelief, and even as Greg shot a

brief, almost dismissive look out the window only to see – as

always – nothing, he had no reason to listen to what his friend

said. And yet the pale face on the quivering figure beside him

that had uttered such fear-laced words seemed so genuine, he had to

wonder…

“Where? I don’t see it? Are you *really*–”

“I…I’m n-not imagining it, Greg – Jesus Christ in H-Heaven I-I-I

wish I w-were…But…”

The shadowy figure outside took a step closer with its head lowered

– preparing to pounce.

“I get that, Bobby, but maybe you just need some rest-”

Four feet breaking into a run as an almost hidden force bursts

through the fence around Randolf’s front yard.

“-and forget what the others say. Maybe you just need a vacation.”

…Teeth baring, sleek body propelling itself into the air…

Frozen, all Randolf could do was cry out his friend’s name as the

window imploded and both of them were thrown to the floor along

with the shattered glass.

“GREG! LOOK OUT!”

Pitt looked up in time to get a quick look at the long-thought

imaginary panther-esque creature looming above him before its jaw

lowered to tear out his throat.

XxXxXxXxX

==========

ACT ONE

==========

“You’re here!?”

Mulder looked up from the piece of paper he was scrawling a note on

at his desk in the X-Files office to see a flustered Scully

standing in the doorway – a mixture of relief and annoyance pasted

on her face. Clearly she had been trying to find him since waking

up alone in the bed earlier this morning.

“Oh, hey…uh…yeah, sorry if I made you worry…” He nervously

glanced around the office, searching for anything to look at but

her until he’d cleared his name of the criminal charge of

‘ditching’. Admittedly, acting guilty wasn’t exactly helping his

cause, but…

“Mul-der?”

He began rifling several papers on his desk – trying and hoping to

be able to hide the note he had started writing to her within the

blur. But his slight of hand was rusty, and certainly no match for

the ever-observant Doctor Dana Scully.

“What you writing?” She stopped in front of his desk and folded

her arms across her chest as the too-familiar brow-raise showed

up. “If it’s a grocery list, don’t forget beer. It was your idea

to let the guys come over later, so you can deal with the

responsibilities.” Of course, she knew full well it wasn’t any

such thing, but it helped calm her before she yet again had to

breach the subject of his unannounced disappearances.

The past year had certainly been…challenging. Then again, when

wasn’t anything in their lives like that? Permanently moving in

together in their own home had certainly been one of (if not) the

best decisions they’d made since their relationship had stepped up

a level – leaving behind her apartment and the ashes of his that

had both only haunted them with bad, painful memories over the

years. The fact remained, however, that her older brother was

dead, her youngest brother was one of Them, Mulder had almost been

taken away from her again due to another piece of alien artifact

turning up, and she still wasn’t one hundred percent convinced

either of them were happy with their decision to return to the

Bureau.

His behavior this morning was not something Dana’d seen for quite

some time, and it worried her.

“No, I…uhh…” Mulder paused and shook his head – lifting out

the sheet of paper he’d been trying to conceal. He couldn’t

explain why he felt so guilty – he’d left her this morning for good

reason, and all he’d been doing upon her arrival was writing a note

to let her know he had to see somebody before they met up for lunch

– but it just refused to let him be. “I was just writing you a

note,” he continued, sitting down in his chair. “I got a call from

Kenny earlier asking if we could meet up to discuss a possible

X-File. I figured I could see him, and then meet you in the park

for lunch.”

The raised brow quickly lowered into a frown. “Kenny? Mulder,

not–?”

“Yes, *that* Kenny – Spooky Jr.”

“I thought we’d discussed–”

“It’s not like that. C’mon, he knows as well as you, me and

Skinner how I get on those cases. I promise, this is different. I

don’t know the specifics, but it sounds like some kind of animal

attack,” he shrugged, silently pleading for her to bear with him.

Doubtful, she ignored the puppy-dog look and backtracked slightly.

“‘An animal attack’, Mulder? Side-stepping the fact that whenever

there’s an animal attack somewhere, somebody for some reason thinks

we should be called in, how did Kenny come across it?”

“I guess I’m never gonna be able to shift the title of ‘Monster

Boy’ after all, am I?” Mulder quipped, leaning back in his chair

and fiddling with the pencil he’d been using to write the note.

When no positive reaction sparked from where she stood, he knew

there was no wriggling away with lame jokes. “I told you,” he

sighed, serious, “I don’t know any details. Kenny said he had

something he wanted to talk over, so I left, got earlier-mentioned

beer from the store, and then came here. I guess, now you’re here,

though, we can go see him together!” He smiled, but she shook her

head.

“Oh, how kind of you!” She let out a deep sigh and sat down on the

corner of the desk. “I’m just so tired of it all sometimes.”

He considered her words for a minute. “Do you regret coming back?”

“No…No, you know it’s not that – we still have answers to

uncover, lies to expose and mysteries to unravel – but…I don’t

know…Maybe I’m just having one of those mornings.”

With an understanding nod, Mulder slowly raised to his feet and

cupped her face in his hands. “I know – we’re damned if we do and

damned if we don’t,” he smiled as she looked up into his eyes. A

brief, silent pause followed as they both ran the past months over

in their minds. “Look, if you’d rather I cancelled the meeting, we

could skip straight to lunch in the park…”

“And have you go on for the rest of eternity about how you wonder

what that case you passed up on was about? No way, mister!” Her

arms snaked around his waist and pulled him forward to close the

gap separating them. “I’ll go with you, but please, Mulder, can we

talk it through before you jump into a decision if it is a

profiling case?”

He moved back a fraction so that he could lower his forehead

against hers – never letting her face fall from the cradle of his

warm palms as he gently rubbed both thumbs back and forth across

her skin. Once, he’d been a creature of habit, but, if he hadn’t

known already, the past year had certainly brought it home that he

wasn’t the only one he had to think about now; every decision had

to be made with her in mind. If the hypothesized consequences of

that decision didn’t look one hundred percent positive, it was

definitely not the path to follow. That didn’t necessarily stop

him from being a forgetful, selfish fool now and then, but he was

trying to make amends in his own clumsy way.

“I promise you that with all I am,” Mulder whispered, silently

praying it was a promise he would manage to keep for once.

With a final kiss, they collected their stuff and then made their

way to meet Agent Kenny Andrews from Violent Crimes.

XxXxXxXxX

The crime scene photos in their full Technicolor goriness were

nowhere near as contradictive as the theories and accusations

flying round about the murder – it was obvious something had burst

through Robert Randolf’s window thus supporting the now-

incarcerated Randolf’s statement. But, as Andrews pointed out,

nothing – no human, let alone creature – was witnessed entering

the house after the deceased Pitt’s arrival, nothing was seen

leaving, nothing was found inside the house, and none of the blood

sampled so far showed traces of foreign DNA, which remained the

local law’s basis for arresting Randolf.

Mulder’s mind, of course, was in overdrive, and his curiosity was

in its element. Even with her eyes trained on the photographs in

her hands, Scully could sense his child-like excitement emanating

from his body beside her.

“So, what d’ya think?” Kenny asked, leaning forward on the edge of

the bench.

Dana had a lot of questions regarding evidence etcetera, but she

knew her partner would explode if he didn’t ask something as soon

as humanly possible, so she let him go first.

It was an opportunity he snatched up within a heartbeat, but he

surprised her when he asked with a slight chuckle, “If the cops are

so certain it’s a simple murder, but all the signs point to an

animal attack, how the hell did you get hold of this? Surely the

VCS doesn’t follow up on this kind of stuff now?”

Andrews let out a loud chuckle and slapped a hand down on his

knee. “No, far from! I actually have a cousin who’s the deputy

there, and …Well, let’s say he’s about as paranoid and hell-bent

on conspiracy theories as you, Mulder!”

There was no holding back the snort of laughter that escaped Scully

– making both men turn to look in her direction – but she said

nothing more as she continued to focus on the crime-scene photos.

“Never mind her – she’s having ‘one of those mornings’,” Mulder

teased, playfully nudging his partner’s arm. “So, your cousin

called you? He thinks it’s an animal?”

“You know that as an officer of the law you’re supposed to take all

the evidence into account. As far as I, and my cousin, figure, the

Douglas County sheriff and the rest of the guys there are ignoring

the hard facts and only paying attention to the circumstantial

evidence.”

“Surely they have more than Randolf’s presence in the room to go

on?” Dana asked, sitting up and handing the photos back to Kenny.

“Neighbors say that–…Oh, no, give ’em to Mulder to put in the

file, and keep it… Apparently, neighbors reported hearing raised

voices, and Randolf’s guide stick was covered with blood – as well

as dented from where it had obviously impacted something.”

“But his throat’s been eaten away!” Mulder exclaimed.

“You don’t need to tell me that. Look, I don’t know if you’re

interested or if you can get the green light on this, but I bet

they could really do with your help there to find the truth.”

Kenny stared at them both with a smile and then slowly stood up.

“I’ll leave it with you – I gotta get back…Real nut-jobs to

profile and track down, you know… I mean, we can’t all be

geniuses, have beautiful partners and our own office in the

basement of the FBI now, can we?”

Scully shot a impish grin in her partner’s direction, and then

turned back to the profiler, quickly replying, “Why thank you,

Kenny – it’s a position I’ve worked hard to reach, though.”

With a warm smile, Mulder gave a nod of his head and ran a finger

across the back of her hand – acknowledging that she’d deserved

that. “We’ll see what we can do, but no promises,” he sighed,

standing also, as did Scully a second later. “It’s good to see you

again, kid. Jeez, it’s been too long! Hey, Scully and I now have

a place over on N – you and Kerry should stop by some time so we

can catch up.”

“Yeah, sure. Keep in touch and keep me up to date on how this

goes, if it goes at all.” Kenny shook the two FBI agents’ hands,

turned, and was just beginning to walk away when Mulder’s voice

made him pause momentarily in his tracks.

“Hey, Kid?”

“Yeah?”

Mulder faltered for a second as he eyed his partner, and then, with

a slow nod of his head and small lift of the case file in his hand,

he finished, seriously “Thanks for this.”

“Always.”

The two sat back down and watched their friend walk away until he

was completely gone from view, but even then they remained still

and silent for several minutes.

A crowd of cheering children ran past, playing ‘Tag’.

An elderly couple followed the path across the horizon, arm in arm,

and then entered the small library hidden in the eastern corner of

the park.

Somewhere to their right a dog playfully barked.

These moments when they could watch and listen to others blissfully

living their purportedly ‘normal’ lives in ignorance while they

fought so painfully hard for the future somehow made it all

worthwhile.

Finally, Mulder started, “So, what do you think?”

“Well, it’s not a profiling case–”

“Right.”

“–it’s not in Florida; by the looks of it there are no woods to

trawl through; no ghosts; no mutants…It would be completely

different from what we’re used to if it weren’t for the possibility

of pissing off the local law.”

Beside her, Mulder sat staring at her with bated breath – a smile

tugging at the corners of his mouth as she reeled off the list.

“It’s perfect!” she beamed playfully, reaching out to take the file

from his grasp. “I’ll go submit the 302 to Skinner and then come

collect you. You can call the guys to let them know they can’t

come over tonight, check we’ve got everything in the overnight

bag… Oh, and can you get the flights or shall I?”

“I got it,” came his reply as he immediately reached for his cell

phone. “Anything else?”

“No. I’ll see you back home – I’ll call when I’m on my way.”

He bent to kiss her on the forehead, but she quickly grabbed his

arm before he could pull away.

“This doesn’t mean I think this is an x-file in any way, of course

– I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation.”

“Oh, of course!”

XxXxXxXxX

CRIME SCENE

2427 SYCAMORE STREET

SOLUS, ILLINOIS

3:12 PM

As anticipated, Skinner had signed off on the case, in fact, happy

they were taking an ‘easy’ case so they could wind down a little,

but the Sheriff’s Department had been barely a couple degrees above

freezing with their welcome. The fact that the two interlopers

were from the Bureau spelled trouble enough, but even worse was

their interruption with a case that was almost wrapped up.

Here they were though, beyond the yellow tape and conducting their

own thorough survey of the scene. Scully had managed to carry out

an inspection of all the evidence still present on site after ten

minutes, but Mulder seemed more interested in the shattered glass

on the floor and the window from where it had come. Scully hadn’t

questioned him about it for a couple of minutes as she knew his

mind was probably working a hundred miles a minute to come up with

some theories, but now it was worrying her.

“Mulder?”

No answer.

Pulling off her latex gloves, she approached – being careful not to

tread on anything of importance.

“Mulder? What you got?”

He glanced up, finally acknowledging her presence, but just as

quickly turned his attention back down to the floor.

“*Something* burst through the window from outside…” His head

raised and he pointed at the overturned table and chairs. “Pitt

and Randolf were sitting at the table at the time, and Randolf must

have…stood up to step away. He put his mug down on the

table…” Mulder paused for a thoughtful second as he moved his

hands around to kind of re-enact the last seconds of Greg Pitt’s

life, before motioning towards the still intact mug that lay close

to the toppled table.

Nodding her head at every observation he made, Scully smiled and

watched her partner do what he did best: piece the puzzle together

and hunt down the missing parts until it was complete. It was what

they were trained to do as investigators, but she found herself

staring in awe at his ability to literally recreate a scene in his

head as if he were there at the time nevertheless.

Her only concern was that he was starting to show the

characteristic habits he took on when he got deeply into a

profiling case.

Several frowning officers silently stood in the corner with their

arms folded across their chests and watched.

“But Pitt didn’t believe his friend…he didn’t expect anything…”

Mulder continued, standing up.

“Bobby’s crazy is why,” one cop piped up, clearly disgruntled. “He

believes in ghosts, you know? Thinks there’s some phantom creature

on the prowl!”

“He was thrown to the floor by whatever it was…” Trailing off,

Mulder looked around the room thoughtfully, and then looked up at

the group of uniformed men. “The report said something about the

accused’s white stick. Where is it?”

There was silence before, a minute later, “In evidence back at the

sheriff’s office.”

Scully stepped up beside him and lightly touched his forearm. He

automatically looked down at her, and to her surprise he actually

had an apologetic expression on his face.

“What are you thinking?” she asked quietly.

“I’m…not sure yet…” Just the look in his eyes and the

hesitation let her know otherwise, but he inclined his head

slightly towards the officers to emphasize his point, and then

snapped his own latex gloves off before resting his hand at its

home on her lower back. “We’ll know more after you’ve examined the

victim. Come on.”

“She–…You’re examining the body?”

Both agents looked at the man that had suddenly stepped forward

with both hands on his hips. It was an attitude and reaction they

were used to having to deal with, but they still wondered when

everybody would catch up with the twentieth century, let alone join

the twenty-first.

“Agent Scully is a medical doctor and we are here to find the truth

about what happened. Just, exactly, what problem do you have with

that?” Mulder snapped, stepping in front of his partner.

At only five foot seven, the officer found himself staring up at

the FBI agent, and he stuttered as he looked for a good enough

answer. Not that he had one, of course, but that was beside the

point… “W-well, uh…n–…”

When no intelligible reply came, Mulder gave a nod of his head and

turned away to lead Scully out. “We’ll be on our way and get back

to you later, then.”

~~~~~

“What was with the alpha male act back there?” Dana chuckled as

they got into their parked sedan.

Mulder fastened his seatbelt and started up the engine. “Small-

town, wanna-be cops always piss me off,” he grumbled, glancing out

at the group leaving the house. “Nobody had even bothered to

examine or consider anything we just worked out in…what? Fifteen

minutes of our arrival?”

“It’s not exactly something we’re unfamiliar with,” she pointed

out. “So, what was your mind working overtime on in there?”

“I’m not saying it’s out of the realms of possibility, but these

guys were sitting having coffee together…Pitt was probably the

only person that had anything to do with Randolf – everybody else

in the town thought he was crazy because of his ravings about

seeing stuff. Why kill the only person that wouldn’t ignore him in

the street, let alone sit down with him in his home?”

“We-ll, that I don’t know…” She shifted in her seat and glanced

out of her own window before shooting him an evil grin. “Maybe if

it were the other way around…”

Wide-eyed, he stared at her, and then slapped a hand against his

chest in mock hurt. “Wow, Sadistic Scully! Have I forgotten

something you’re trying to hint at?”

Chuckling, she shook her head. “At any rate, I think you’re

right. Everything in the house points to somebody–”

“Or something.”

“Yes, even *something*, else. We might, hopefully, be able to

settle that one after I’ve done the autopsy. Are you gonna

question Mr. Randolf while I do that?”

“Actually,” Mulder started, putting the vehicle into gear and

pulling away from the curb, “I thought I’d stick with you for a

while, if that’s okay.”

Now she was confused! “You want to come with me to the morgue?

I’m definitely worried!”

“I’m curious about what could have done this.”

That was his only answer and she silently accepted.

~~~~~

Strangers.

Interfering strangers.

It had silently watched through slit eyes as solid pad had followed

solid pad along the damp, asphalt road, but as they had sat in

their car, Its teeth had bared – saliva dripping from Its hungry

jaws as It felt the desperate need to dispose of these threatening

beings course through its veins.

It could almost smell and taste their blood.

…Later.

It would get them later.

…Make the hunt a little more interesting…

It watched their car pull away, and then turned a thoughtful eye on

the departing police officers before continuing on its way.

It still had some leftovers from its newest victim to eat…

XxXxXxXxX

DOUGLAS COUNTY MORGUE

TUSCOLA, ILLINOIS

“Oh, my God!”

The photos Kenny had shown them had been gory in their detail, but

they certainly had not done enough justice to capture the full

extent of wounds on the victim, and even Scully found herself

having to look away briefly as she pulled the cover back.

Mulder immediately covered his mouth and stepped away.

The throat was practically non-existent – even the neck was nothing

but a collection of bone fragments. At least a dozen long slashes

down and across the face had ripped it to near unidentifiability.

Further down the body was no better…

Ravished skin hung loosely from the left shoulder and arm, exposing

the torn and dead muscle tissue inside; lacerations marred the

torso, but not as badly as the large rip leading all the way down

from the decimated throat to the just-as-mutilated groin, and

without even having to look too closely it was easy to see through

the wound that all vital organs had been nibbled at…some were

even missing…

“They think a human did this?” Scully croaked, examining the whole

body with wide-eyed horror.

“No, they think a middle-aged, weak, lonely, blind guy did it,”

Mulder tried to joke with little success.

He stepped around the metal gurney until he was opposite her, and

frowned as he stole a glance at the torso – hand still firmly

covering mouth. Scully watched the curiosity grow on his face as

he leaned in closer, and asked what it was, but he didn’t reply

until his face was merely centimeters from the victims chest.

“Hey, Scully, you got a razor there?” his muffled voice queried

from behind his sweaty palm.

She quickly turned to pull the utensils tray over and picked up the

electrical razor – handing it over to Mulder, who then immediately

shaved away the fair chest hair that covered the area he was

examining.

“A-ha!”

“What is it?”

He took several steps away and gestured toward the body. “Tell me

what that looks like to you.”

Scully eyed him curiously, pulled a magnifying glass from the tray

and then moved to stand beside him. She was about to question

further until she noticed what he had found: a faint, purple bruise

in the shape of a–

“It’s a paw print,” she coughed, sharply looking up.

A moment of silence as they both weighed up the facts.

“Scully, can you do a full autopsy of this body?” Mulder suddenly

started, planting both hands on Dana’s shoulders and surprising

her. “Document every wound…maybe run a tox screen to see if he

was under the influence in any way…See if you can find out the

size of what we’re dealing with?”

“Well, of course, b-but…” The frown creasing her brow deepened.

“You don’t think it’s obvious already?”

“I know and you know, but something tells me the Douglas County law

won’t be ready to accept our complete overhaul of their work. We

need as much evidence as possible more than ever.”

With a nod of her head, Scully’s hands raised to pull the green

mask up over her mouth, but he quickly stopped her by grabbing her

wrists.

“Don’t I get a kiss before I go?” he asked, bending slightly and

puckering his lips in expectation.

She stared at him for a while, smiling – he was so beautiful when

he acted so sappy. Of course, they shouldn’t be being so openly

affectionate towards each other – particularly while on the job –

but there was no one around, and hey, she’d pretty much stopped

caring about it since they’d moved in together. So, she eventually

reached up on tiptoe to share a passionate kiss with him that

became very difficult to leave.

“You just didn’t want to stay for the autopsy,” she laughed,

finally pulling the face mask up.

“Well, there is that, but I figured I’d go return the favor and

piss the local law off a little more by questioning Robert Randolf.”

“That’s my g-man. I’ll call you if I come up with anything. You

be careful!”

Cupping her cheek in the palm of his hand, he smiled at her and

then walked out.

Scully turned back to the corpse and let out a deep sigh.

XxXxXxXxX

SHERIFF’S STATION

TUSCOLA, ILLINOIS

“Oh, hey! You!”

Mulder sharply turned at the sound of the calling voice to see a

uniformed man quickly pacing down the corridor toward him with a

waving hand in the air.

“Yeah, you. Can you wait a moment?”

Nodding, the FBI agent sighed and cast a brief glance at the room

behind him.

“Hey! You Ken’s guy? From the Bureau?” the stranger panted once

he’d finally caught up.

Mulder smiled and pulled out his ID wallet. “Hi, yeah – Special

Agent Fox Mulder. Are you his…uh…cousin?” He hesitated,

holding out his free hand to shake the stranger’s. If this guy was

the deputy, he was the most unlikely one Mulder’d ever come across:

Short-cropped blonde hair topped the slim-built man that likely

only just reached the height of five foot one because he was

wearing shoes.

“Deputy Michael Grovener – you can just call me Mike. I’m so glad

you made it…Ken’s mentioned a lot about you – about the work you

do; sounds like fun.”

“I wouldn’t call it that as such…” The agent shifted

uncomfortably from one foot to the other as he continued to study

the man he towered above. “Uh…maybe more ‘interesting’. Anyway,

Kenny said you didn’t agree with how this is being conducted?” He

had hoped to question Randolf before confronting the sheriff or

even the deputy, but that idea was clearly out the window now.

Fingers were suddenly more tightly crossed that Scully would be

able to turn up the answers and proof they needed.

Grovener shook his head, quickly glanced around to check no one was

within earshot, and then whispered, “You’ve seen the scene, right?

The file? There’s no way the case holds. I mean, have you spoke

to Bill yet?”

“Bill?”

“Bill Dench – the sheriff?”

“Uh…no,” Mulder shrugged, becoming more uneasy. “We met a couple

of officers at Randolf’s home, but that was–”

“We?”

“Me and my partner, Agent Scully.” At the deputy’s frown he

quickly added, “She’s at the county morgue examining the victim.”

“Oh…uh…” The frown creasing Grovener’s brow deepened and he

shook his head. He didn’t have a problem with what he’d just been

told, but Bill certainly would, and he’d not worked alongside the

sheriff for two years to not learn that it was best to never get on

his bad side. “Oh-kay…uh…Ken never mentioned you had a

female partner…But–”

“You have a problem with that?” Mulder’s arms folded across his

chest. “We got the same kind of reception from a group of your

colleagues earlier…”

“Believe me, I don’t think that way, but Bill…Well, he’s old-

fashioned – lived here his whole life and, well, he’s lived it

pretty sheltered, like. You know what I mean? That’s why nobody

in this building, ‘cept his assistant, is female.”

This could get interesting once Scully returned from the morgue!

Smiling, Mulder couldn’t help but envision one of the possible

disagreements his fiery partner and the sheriff would get into on

their encounter. It wasn’t the others undermining her he liked –

far from, and he would happily throw a fist or two in her defense

if allowed – but her kick-ass reactions and retorts made it

worthwhile.

“We can worry about that later, though,” Grovener’s voice droned

on. “So, have you found any answers yet?”

Answers? They’d only been in town an hour, if that! Admittedly,

they had come to a better conclusion than the sheriff, but that

didn’t mean to say they had concrete answers (at least, not ones

they wanted to share just yet). He had to wonder what the kid had

been saying to his cousin…

“Not yet – I was just about to go question Mr. Randolf,” Mulder

replied, gesturing toward the door behind him.

“Oh, sorry! Hey, mind if I come in and watch?”

Did Mulder even have a choice in the matter? This wasn’t his

territory – he didn’t exactly have the right to say ‘no’ to the

county deputy.

“Uh…no, of course not…”

XxXxXxXxX

Step. Step. Step.

The green linoleum flooring slipped easily beneath Its paws – the

pads leaving prints of condensation in the wake of each that slowly

faded away just as the lives of these strangers would soon

enough… Them and anybody else that crossed Its path.

Step.

Step.

Its lithe body moved along the corridor, and It desperately tried

to ignore the foul smell of disinfectant that polluted every

molecule in the air and filled Its nostrils. It couldn’t

understand how a species that depended on blood as its life source,

could be so desperate to clean the stuff away.

Step.

“…Organs to note that are missing include–”

Ears pricked up, body pressed to the ground and eyes contracted to

slits. The voice of the woman echoed against the walls, and It

slinked along until It crouched outside the double doors.

Wait.

XxXxXxXxX

“I believe you didn’t do it, but your defense is far from

conceivable, so why don’t you just explain it to me? Forget Deputy

Grovener – just me. Tell me about this creature you swear killed

your friend–”

“I don’t even understand it!” Randolf whined, shaking his lowered

head. “I just see it – most of the time it just walks along the

street, but sometimes…” Gulp. “Sometimes It stops and…and

w-w-watches people…J-just *stares*, like Its planning

something…”

Mulder – one hand flat down on the table Bob sat at while the other

quickly reached up to wipe some sweat from his brow – glanced round

at the deputy, who continued to stand silently in the corner of the

room.

“I tried to help Greg…I-I used my stick, but…b-but…” The

seated man’s tears overwhelmed him, and he broke down – resting his

forehead against the edge of the table.

“Why can’t anybody but you see it, Bob?” Mulder continued, quietly,

moving to crouch beside Randolf. “What does it even look like?”

His voice dropped to a near whisper. “I can help you stop It –

make sure It doesn’t hurt anybody else, if you just trust me and

tell all you can.”

Bob’s head lifted a fraction, and Mulder prayed he’d made the

connection necessary to gain the key information to stop the

creature.

“It’s like a panther – black and slim…” came the choked response

after several tense minutes. “Its teeth…It–…I don’t know if

It can be stopped…”

“Just help me find It.”

“I–”

The door swung open and a tall, broad man stood with hands on hips

casting a puzzled look around the room before focusing on

Grovener. “Deputy, I been looking for you everywhere! Come on, we

got another one.”

Randolf sat upright with wide eyes, Mulder sharply turned and

raised to his full height, and Grovener quickly moved to the exit.

“Same MO?”

Sheriff Bill Dench snapped around to frown at the stranger who had

called out the question, as if only just noticing his presence.

“Who’s asking?”

“This is Agent Mulder from the FBI,” the deputy piped up before

Mulder had chance to reply.

“FBI?” The frown deepened, and then realization dawned. “Oh,

*you* – the guy here to screw up our hard work? Well, looks like

there’s a new twist without you having done a thing,” Dench sniped,

bitterly. “Heard you had a partner with you. Where is he?”

Mulder’s mouth opened to respond, but once again Grovener jumped in

with “At the morgue – examining Pitt. Who’s the new victim?”

before any sound managed to pass his lips.

“Unidentified female in her late twenties/early thirties found

behind the post office just two blocks away from this guy’s

place.” A large, gloved hand pointed in Randolf’s direction before

Dench turned steely eyes back on the FBI agent. “And yes, the

body’s in the same condition as Pitt’s. Come on, Deputy, let’s

go.” With one last disgusted glance at Mulder, the sheriff stalked

out with Grovener slowly following.

Waiting a beat after the door had slammed shut, Mulder crouched

back down beside Bob. “I’m gonna go now…My partner and I are

working our own investigation, and we knew you hadn’t done this

even before the newest victim, but you gotta promise me something:

as soon as you get out of here, you’ll help us find this and stop

It. Do you think you can do that?”

Randolf lifted his head to stare at the blurred shape of the figure

beside him, and gave an unsteady nod. In honesty, he didn’t think

he could stop the creature, but he’d lost everybody that meant

anything to him. So very little mattered to him, except killing

the creature that had murdered his best friend. He had to try, and

at least this guy seemed to care and believe him.

Mulder left the room, nodded his thanks to the police officer

outside the door, and then pulled out his cell phone as he headed

for the car park – hitting the well-used speed-dial button.

“Mulder?”

His eyebrows raised sharply at the sound of his partner’s response

over the line, but then a mischievous grin begun to lift his

cheeks. “Wow! What a coincidence – my name’s Mulder, too!” he

teased. “I’m sorry, though – I must have the wrong number…I’m

trying to get hold of my doubting, forever-questioning-every-theory

little partner whose name is only Mulder in my fantasies.”

There was an unsettled pause from the other end, and his smile

broadened at the thought that he’d succeeded with his aim.

“Mul–…”

“Had you big time, Scully!” he chuckled – shaking his head as he

heard her large release of breath. “How’s it going on your end?”

“This is a case for Animal Control, Mulder, without question, but I

don’t see what we can do.” It was obvious she was tired and

frustrated. The sigh punctuating her sentence only confirmed that,

but he had to know…

“What’ve you got?”

“There’s a similar bruise to the one you found on the opposite side

of Mr. Pitt’s chest; a lung, the heart and liver have been ripped

out as if It knew distinctly what It was after – I mean, other than

from the deep lacerations, there is no damage to any of the other

body tissue. There’s signs Pitt struggled right until It bit

through the aorta and superior vena cava.”

“Ouch.” He irritably wiped a hand down his face before reaching to

put the key in the ignition. “I just spoke to Bob Randolf, before

the high-and-mighty Sheriff Dench intervened–”

“That bad?”

“We-ell, let’s say–” He cut himself off abruptly – he’d almost

made a crack about another Bill hating his guts, but that was still

a little too inappropriate, so he quickly considered his next

words. “…uh…he’s not exactly separate from everybody else

we’ve received a cold reception from. Anyway, Randolf’s probably

about as clueless as we are right about now.”

Pacing the room, Scully shook her head and quirked an eyebrow. It

actually sounded as if…

“So, what theory have you subscribed to? Phantom beast? Invoked

spirit summoned to protect Randolf? Some kind of psychic ability

on Randolf’s or an outside source’s part? Lycanthrope?–”

“‘Lycanthrope’? Scully! Dear diary…”

“*What’s your theory*?”

His hand withdrew from the key. She knew already, so why she had

to have so much fun rubbing it in his face still puzzled him.

“Actually…I’m not–…I don’t have one.”

There it was!

“You, without a theory? Maybe I should be the one saying ‘Dear

Diary…’,” she scoffed, pausing in her tracks near the double-door

entrance to the room.

“Whatever,” he chuckled, clearing his throat, before turning

serious again. “This thing is hungry, Scully, and It’s found Its

next victim already – they’ve disc…….”

Her partner’s voice drained out as Scully frowned and stared at the

double doors. She didn’t know why, but she felt inexplicably

unsettled – almost as if she was being watched. The phone lowered

away from her ear, but it didn’t really matter as she’d already

stopped registering what Mulder was saying, anyway, or if he was

even saying anything at all anymore.

*It’s just your imagination running away,* the voice in her head

rationalized.

The dark, gripping sensation refused to go though, and the tiny

hairs on the back of her neck stood up in terror. …Just that

irrational feeling of eyes following her every move…

Watching.

Waiting.

“–nd…Scully?”

A small, latex-encased hand raised shakily to press against one of

the metal double-doors.

“Scully? Scully, are you there?!”

Eyes narrowed.

Mulder’s worry heightened.

Scully stepped out into the hallway…

…And then the phone line disconnected.

“*Scully!*”

XxXxXxXxX

==========

ACT TWO

==========

Memories of blood-spatter on walls, ripped skin, and a gouged

throat hounded Mulder as he slammed on the brake, exited the car as

quickly as possible, and then ran down the long corridor of the

morgue to the room he’d left his partner in earlier. Any number of

things could have been the reason for her hanging up, but the only

ones he could think of as cold sweat bathed his body filled his

heart with dread.

“Scully?”

He burst through the double doors – eyes darting around the area as

he searched for her.

‘Please, God, let her be okay.’

“Scully!”

When he saw her smashed cellphone on the floor, all hope he’d been

harboring was snatched away.

Mulder stepped cautiously toward the gurney he’d stood beside

earlier; where Greg Pitt’s body had been but now wasn’t. Gone,

just like–

“Sc–?”

“Mul-der?”

Defying whiplash, his head snapped around at maximum speed to stare

at the mauled utility closet door. The knob turned, but the wood

had been bent in its frame and wouldn’t budge.

“Mulder, are you there?”

The breath he’d been holding quickly left his lungs in a relieved

sigh as he ran to the door holding his partner captive. He didn’t

think he’d ever been so glad to hear her voice – no matter how

shaken.

“I’m here, Scully! Are you okay? What happened?”

“I’m…I’m fine…”

She said nothing more, and there was no doubting she was far from.

Mulder tried to open the door from his side, but had as little luck

as she’d had.

“Stand back, I’m gonna kick the door in,” he told her gently,

briefly resting his forehead against the scratched wood panel in a

silent prayer that she wasn’t too badly injured. “Okay?”

“Okay…I’m clear…”

One hearty kick freed her from the prison she’d originally used as

a refuge, and she rushed into his open arms – quietly sobbing. He

held her close for a moment, before stepping back to examine her.

The four long, parallel gouges on her right arm told him more than

he wanted to know.

“I was talking to you and…I can’t explain it – I just got this

feeling that somebody was watching me and…” Her voice trailed

off momentarily as she shook her head dismissively, the scientist

in her trying to push away all the other explanations she’d been

pondering over for the last ten minutes, but her better judgment

knowing otherwise. “I couldn’t see anything…There was

nothing–” Shakily, she lifted the injured arm and studied it.

“The next thing I knew, something slashed my arm… But still I

couldn’t see anything else in the room…”

Mulder tentatively ran his fingertips over the scratches – wiping

away the blood pooling from them. They’d faced so many dangerous

beasts, creatures and mutants over the years, but the only time he

was sure he’d seen her this shaken was after her encounters with

Donnie Pfaster. Of course, this was a completely different

scenario, but he’d come so close to losing her… His eyes slipped

shut and it was difficult to push away the memories of the scene at

Randolf’s home.

“We need to get you to the hospital,” he finally started, opening

his eyes to stare at her.

“I’m fine – I’ll go to the hospital later, but it’s nothing,

really.” Once again, Scully paused, but this time her jaw set and

her shoulders squared as she continued to stare at him for a long

while before continuing, in a serious tone, “I was lucky – every

cell of logic in me said it wasn’t possible, but I got to the

closet before any real damage could be done. This…*thing* –

whatever It is – is still out there and we have to find a way to

stop it before somebody else isn’t as lucky.”

“It’s killed two people already…You could have been the third…”

“But I *wasn’t*,” she assured him, lifting her left hand to cup his

cheek and prove she was really there. “Randolf must know more than

he’s letting on – why is he the only one that can see this thing?”

“Maybe I can help a little with that.”

Both agents turned towards the double doors to see a tall, gray-

haired, bespectacled man.

“It’s okay. My name’s Doctor Tom David – I’m Mister Randolf’s

local physician. I just received a distraught phone call from him

asking that I come speak with you – I take it you’re the agents

from the FBI?” the stranger explained, wearily glancing at the

destroyed closet door in the far corner of the room, and the

congealed globs of blood on the floor by one of the gurneys.

Mulder gave a last lingering ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ look to

his partner as he carefully let go of her arm, waited for her nod

and tiny smile that anybody but him would have missed, and then

stepped toward the intruder. “Doctor David?” he frowned, searching

his memory cabinet for the name. “Oh! You were questioned by the

sheriff right after the murder of Greg Pitt. You’re on file saying

Randolf is…uh…’Delusional’?”

David gave a nervous chuckle and shrug of his shoulders as, yet

again, he cast a surveying eye around the room. “‘Delusional’ is

maybe a little over-exaggeration concocted by Sheriff Dench to make

his report look more aesthetically pleasing to his own ego. My

point I came here to talk with you about is that Bob suffers from

something called Macular Degeneration…It’s a condition that

usually affects people as they get older, but I believe the trauma

of the car crash he was in and the resulting death of his wife

caused a great surge of pressure on all his functions, leading to

the bursting of vessels in his eyes.”

A befuddled Mulder turned back to Scully – silently asking for

confirmation.

“That would be a fair enough assessment,” she finally piped up,

clearing her throat and quickly shifting into Doctor mode.

“But…” Suddenly, a look of confusion creased her features also,

and she rested her left hand against her hip. “That doesn’t

explain what Randolf has been reporting, or – more to the point –

why you’re here.”

Tom David had lived in Douglas County all his life – in Solus for

the largest part of that – and had practiced medicine for almost

thirty years, but despite the many people he’d met, he didn’t think

he’d ever come across anybody like these two federal agents. He

couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was an electricity or

unseeable force of some kind in this room, and the inability to

explain it scared him. Admittedly, he was more concerned about the

broken door, blood splatters and broken cellphone on the floor, but

he couldn’t let them know that – after all, he had a job to do.

“The degeneration has been causing Bob to hallucinate. His brain

fills in the holes that his eyes cannot, and, as a result, his

imagination presents him with mostly mundane objects…except for a

dark beast that, I believe, represents his anger at his whole

situation. He’s become fixated, though, his grief has been

deepening, and everybody in the town mocks. In my medical opinion,

I believe the stress became too much and he finally snapped – using

this manifestation as an excuse.”

“That sounds more like a psychologist’s opinion to me,” Mulder

grunted, folding both arms across his chest. “A psychiatrist’s

assessment. I thought you said you were his physician?” They’d

been faced by so much contempt so far for reasons they’d put down

to just their presence, but he was beginning to wonder if there was

something else going on. Even Scully looked doubtful.

The doctor shifted from one foot to the other, refusing to say

anymore.

“Who asked you to speak with us, again?”

“I told you, Mr. Randolf phoned me.”

“He asked you to tell us he’s guilty of murdering his only friend,

despite swearing to me half-hour ago that it was a panther-like

creature? Fascinating!” the tall agent snapped sarcastically.

“Who sent you, Doctor David, and how did you know I was here?”

There was a moment of tense silence, before the older man finally

closed his eyes and conceded, “Sheriff Dench gave me a call… He

said your partner was examining the body, and asked me to come and

speak with…’him’.” He fixed his gaze on Scully briefly before

turning back to Mulder and shrugging his shoulders. “He’s just

trying to tie up loose ends without it all having to be dredged up

again. I am Bob’s doctor, but I confess to listening a bit too

much to the rumors and things people say about him.”

Wincing when she took a step forward and accidentally brushed her

injured arm against Mulder’s jacket, Scully queried, “Why weren’t

any of your medical observations noted on record? If Dench is so

adamant on essentially solving this with Occam’s Razor, why not

include what you just theorized to us on file?”

“Because nobody else reading it would have believed it.

Hallucinations seen by a sane, visually handicapped man? That,

alone, would have been cause for further investigation.”

“Actually, no,” she replied. “It’s known as Charles Bonnet

Syndrome to specialists…I heard somebody once mention it in

passing while I was at Quantico, but didn’t know anything until I

read a paper on it a year or so ago. It’s a fairly common

condition, and some people have actually been recorded as seeing

figures and monsters. What Bob is seeing though, isn’t a

hallucination…” She raised her right arm and felt a wave of

nausea and giddiness overtake her senses momentarily.

“Scully?”

“Oh my God!” David exclaimed, examining the deep, bleeding

slashes. “What the hell did this? You should be at a hospital.”

“That’s what I said,” Mulder scolded, staring at his partner.

“This is what Randolf’s imagination did. If he’s delusional,

Delusion must have its own body.”

“What?”

“Whatever Randolf’s seeing, it attacked Agent Scully–”

“I’m fine,” she insisted, trying to calm Mulder’s heightening

temper and voice. “It’s just a couple of scratches…”

Her voice trailed off as a larger wave of light-headedness claimed

her, and just as the looks of concern on the two men’s faces

registered in her brain, everything faded to black. There was the

distant sound of Mulder calling her name as he rushed to catch her,

and then nothing.

XxXxXxXxX

As the doors on the back of the coroner’s van slammed shut, Deputy

Mike Grovener turned with a hung head, wiped a hand down his weaty

face and sighed, “This is the fourth known attack! God, what the

hell’s doin’ this?”

“And why is it they’re all only turning up after these two FBI

agents arrive in town?” a frustrated sheriff growled, briskly

approaching with a small evidence bag tightly gripped in one hand.

“I had it all wrapped up, and then they had to come in snoopin’

around for some goddamned reason!”

“It’s not their fault,” Grovener defended. He knew he’d done the

right thing by getting an outside source involved to find the

truth, but he couldn’t believe how out-of-hand this had gotten in

just a few short days. “That body looked like it’d been there for

a good couple months. Nobody’s to blame ‘cept whatever’s doin’

this.”

“The hell it ain’t! How the hell did they even know to come here

in the first place?”

A broad, spectacled figure dressed in a dark suit and trenchcoat

stepped up behind them and attempted to intercept the conversation,

but was quickly shot down by the infuriated sheriff. “They were–”

“Can you shut up a second – I’m talkin’ to my Deputy! Now, you

tell me, Grovener: if they ain’t responsible in any way for any of

this, how the hell did they find out about this case?”

Mike shot a nervous glance over at the federal agent behind Dench,

before finally and tentatively replying, “I called them in.”

“Excuse me?”

“I have a cousin in D.C who’d spoken a lot about two agents he knew

that dealt with…unusual cases. I thought they’d be the best to

help solve this,” the deputy explained, regaining some confidence.

“‘Solve this’? We had it solved!”

“Oh, come on, Bill! You know as well as me that there’s no way

Bobby could have killed Greg at all, let alone done what we saw at

that house…or even what we’ve seen here!” Irritably, Grovener

gestured toward where the last few police officers were still

standing with shocked expressions on their faces. “We’ve got three

people dead, one in hospital, and for some reason Randolf is still

in custody!”

Dench felt the energy drain out of him, and his shoulders sagged as

his head shook in defeat. So, maybe Mike was right, but at the

time it had seemed so simple…what else was he supposed to have

thought? And now, as the afternoon light was beginning to fade and

the cloud cover threatened to bring weather that would wash any

other possible evidence away, he didn’t know what to do – he just

felt as if his ability to do his job had been ripped away like the

lives of these victims.

“I’m gonna go speak to Randolf – that Agent M–…uh…whatever his

name was…”

“Mulder,” Grovener provided.

“Whatever…I got the impression he thought Bob was connected to

whatever this is somehow, and those stupid rumors in town imply the

same. Deputy, maybe it’s time we called in Animal Control after

all – if the FBI can’t crack this, we’ll have to take a different

approach.”

“Yes, sir.” With a small, acknowledging nod to both men, Grovener

turned and walked away to make a call on the car radio.

“We are doing all we can, Sheriff, I assure you. Those two are our

best, and this won’t stop them from finding the truth,” the third

man assured, staring at Dench’s back.

“Ian was sixteen years old – his life hadn’t even started yet. I

just want this thing captured before it kills anybody else –

especially a small child.”

Pushing his glasses up to rest properly on the bridge of his nose,

Assistant Director Walter Skinner watched as the Douglas County

sheriff shook his head and left also.

So much for letting Mulder and Scully work on an ‘easy case’.

XxXxXxXxX

JARMAN MEMORIAL HOSPITAL

TUSCOLA, ILLINOIS

APRIL 19th, 2005

4:12 PM

Dim light.

Sounds of people milling about and occasional cries of pain.

The familiar smell of–…

As senses kicked in, both eyes slowly opened and Dana Scully turned

her head until she noticed Mulder’s tired form slumped in the chair

to her left.

“Mul–”

“Scully!” he exclaimed with relief – leaning forward and kissing

her forehead, his hand never releasing its death grip on hers.

“You’re awake?”

She frowned, confused. She remembered performing the autopsy on

the victim’s body and speaking to Mulder on the phone, but after

that was a complete blank.

“Mulder, where am I? What’s happened?”

“You don’t remember?” It was his turn to frown, but he was just

grateful she was okay.

When she shook her head, he explained what had happened over the

past twenty-four hours: how she’d been attacked by the invisible

entity; how they’d spoken with Doctor David and she had then

passed out; how she’d been brought here and stitched up.

“But, I don’t understand… Why can’t I remember anything after

going to open the doors?” Scully asked.

He wished he could give her the answers, but he didn’t even know

them himself. So much of the last day was a blur, he even had

trouble describing it to her. The only thing barely coherent in

his memory was the call he’d made to Skinner at 2:37 this morning

begging the assistant director to fly to Illinois and help in their

hunt for the answers.

‘Mulder, you know I’ll help as much as I can, but I can’t just leave

what I’m working on to assist with what was originally a simple

homicide!’ the man at the end of the line had exclaimed, rubbing a

hand across his chest and then reaching for his glasses on the

nightstand. ‘I’m Assistant Director of the FBI – things are a

little busier than they are down in the basement.’

‘I know, but I need you here,’ had been Mulder’s insistant reply as

he’d paced back and forth outside Scully’s hospital room. ‘I can’t

leave her – not until she’s woken up. But I need to chase down

some possible leads and come up with a solid theory. Please.’

“Skinner’s here?” Dana coughed at the end of her partner’s

narrative – eyeing him suspiciously. “He ditched all his

appointments because you said ‘please’?”

Grinning at the skepticism he’d missed not being able to throw wild

theories at last night, Mulder shrugged his shoulders and joked,

“What? You don’t think Skinner’s susceptible to my charms as

well? How’d you think we got away with my ‘losing’ the expense

report last week?”

“Okay, okay, so he’s here – although I hasten to correct that it’s

Accounting’s responsibility to ream you a new ass for that, not

Skinner’s,” she chided with a shake of her head.

“Of course.”

“But I still don’t understand why I don’t remember anything or why

I’m still here?”

He nodded his head in agreement. “That I’m still trying to figure,

as well as a hundred other things. I got Grovener to bring me some

reference books, and have been looking some stuff up whilst waiting

for you to come to. The one thing that keeps coming up is the myth

of the black, unknown creature that has been spotted primarily in

farm lands across the world…Central and southern Illinois even

have their own claims to the myth.”

“You can’t be serious?” came her familiar, cautionary tone.

“Actually, no. Those have, for the most past, all been proven to

be either large domesticated cats or creatures that have escaped

captivity and adapted to live in the wild – all only feeding on

cattle and other livestock to help survival. This…this is

different to anything I’m finding in the literature.” He could see

from the dubious frown creasing her features that she disliked the

sound of that even more than the idea that this was something out

of local folklore, but he stuck with the train of thought

nevertheless. “This thing has thought – it even came back for

Pitt’s body. Why, when there’s plenty of others in the town to

hunt down if It’s hungry? And then there’s that important aspect:

why can no one but Randolf see It? It attacked you but you still

didn’t see it…”

“At the moment, I don’t even remember it,” Scully groaned.

“I know, and we’ll figure that out, but I’ve been thinking about

something Randolf said, you said, Doc David said and I said, and it

occurred to me: what if all of Randolf’s emotions became so great

and overwhelming that they broke free and manifested themselves

into a violent spirit intent on protecting Randolf as best it can –

it would explain the connection between them. And he suffers from

MD – blocking out parts of his vision…What if his having that

disability is what gives him the ability to see this thing when

everybody else can’t?”

Scully stared at her partner, waiting for him to say ‘gotcha’ or

anything of the like. But when he finished and took a deep breath,

she knew he was serious. She took a deep breath also, and then

glanced down at the four hands tightly linked together and resting

in her lap. If only she could remember what had happened at the

morgue…

“Maybe I should have stayed asleep a little longer,” she sighed,

half-heartedly. “Mulder, something invisible cannot scratch me,

let alone kill somebody, it’s impossible. You know we’ve come far

enough along for me to not so readily push your theories aside, but

you have to admit this is asking me to believe in a lot! There’s

nothing in what you just said that I can scientifically prove or

disprove. And…Who’s ‘Doc David’?”

“You wanted a theory yesterday, and this is the best I got,” came

his hurt reply, shortly followed by a large, uncontrollable yawn.

“For all I know it could be Randolf’s wife reincarnated! I know it

sounds crazy, but when hasn’t the craziest possible scenario been

the right one? Bob has a connection to this thing he likely

doesn’t know about, and It’s killing anybody that has questioned

anything he says. And I know you can’t remember (for reasons as

questionable as this case, I hasten to remind), but yesterday you

said that Charles Bonnet Syndrome caused visually impaired people

to see hallucinations – often times actual moving figures.

Correct?”

Finding it hard not to cower away from his growing temper and the

crushing hold he now had on her hands, she gave a silent nod. Of

course, he was right – in fact, his theory held a logical

believability no matter how far out there it was.

But something didn’t *feel* right.

He’d been acting…odd…since they’d arrived yesterday. Even she

hadn’t exactly been acting her normal self.

It wasn’t right. Something just–…It all felt too orchestrated.

Her eyes slipped shut, but they flung back open again straight

after as all she saw behind her eyelids were those cold, piercing

yellow eyes staring back at her from that black snarling, hungry

feline face.

“Scully?” Mulder quickly asked in concern – realizing the death

grip he had on her hands and immediately letting them go. “I’m

sorry…I didn’t mean–…I’m petrified by what could happen.”

“It doesn’t like strangers,” she whispered.

“Huh?”

“Where’s Skinner?”

“Uh…Last I heard he was trying to convince Animal Control that

this isn’t their standard coyote or coydog to exterminate, with

little luck. Why?”

She fixed her gaze on him – eyes filled with terror. For some

reason there were thoughts in her head she knew didn’t belong there

– explanations for what was going on in Solus – but the words were

jumbled and she couldn’t seem to speak them out loud. She didn’t

need to, though: Mulder could see at least some of it through her

eyes and quickly left the hospital room, placing a lingering kiss

on her lips before he did.

XxXxXxXxX

Meat tore away from bone.

Blood-soaked teeth tore ferociously once more at the throat until

the head completely disconnected, and then the silhouetted figure

stood.

“They’ll learn,” a voice whispered, before the hand lowered to pick

up the discarded cranium. “I’ll show them what they refuse to see.”

A tearful Randolf moved to put his find in a paper bag, and then

left Sheriff Dench’s home – forgetting to wash up the bloodied saw in

his haste.

XxXxXxXxX

==========

ACT THREE

==========

“Skinner.”

“Sir, it’s Mulder.”

“How is she?”

Mulder smiled as he pulled the car up alongside where the assistant

director stood, hung up the phone and called out the open window,

“You workin’?”

“I thought yours and Agent Scully’s relationship gave you no need

to follow that form of recreation,” Skinner frowned, turning at the

sound of his agent’s voice and pocketing the cellphone. “Besides,

I asked you a question first.”

“She’s awake. Hop in, sir – I’m heading over to Greg Pitt’s place

to do some sniffing around.”

Skinner eyed his friend suspiciously. At half-three this morning

Eastern time, Mulder had been seemingly lost and completely

clueless when he’d spoken to him over the phone. Six hours later

he’d been pretty much the same. Skinner’d known there would be

some level of regained energy upon Scully’s awakening, but the

gleam he saw in Mulder’s eyes now was…

Well, it was just spooky.

“How’d it go with Animal Control?”

“Not very well. They’ve sent out a special team to hunt It down,

but they’re still under the impression they’re searching for a

coyote, not a black, phantom cat. Deputy Grovener tried to help

explain, but it was useless,” the A.D sighed, settling into the

passenger seat. “Anyway, why you off to Pitt’s place?”

Mulder diverted his eyes off the road long enough to throw an

enigmatic glance in his boss’s direction, and then replied – more

serious, “Playing a hunch. Scully doesn’t remember anything after

when we spoke on the phone, and I think she may be questioning my

sanity right around now, but when I looked in her eyes…” He

paused. What was he’d seen? How could he explain it? When he’d

looked into the depths of her blue eyes, it had been like there

something was missing – or, even, that something else had been

added.

He’d caught a fleeting image of the beast reflected in her eyes.

“I can’t explain it,” he continued after attempting,

unsuccessfully, to explain to himself how the new theory eating

away at him had come to mind. “But so many dead-end thoughts have

been swimming about in my head since yesterday, I figured it might

be best to try chase down the unconsidered option that would

normally have probably been my initial gut instinct upon reading

the case file.”

All Skinner could do was sit and stare in unresolved bewilderment.

“If I tell you, you’ll laugh.”

“Mulder, I may not agree with some–…Well, a *majority* of your

ideas…and I may question your sanity even moreso than Agent

Scully, but I don’t ‘laugh’ at any of your theories.”

Awkward, hesitant silence lasted for long minutes. It wasn’t until

the rental car had pulled up on Mekke Avenue in Solus, and the two

men had gotten out, that Mulder started, “When I looked in Scully’s

eyes at the hospital, I saw this thing – this black cat – and I

realized Pitt saw it too right before it killed him.”

“But how?”

*Pitt didn’t believe his friend…he didn’t expect anything.*

“He looked around – his chair was slightly pushed away from the

table as well. Scully said at the morgue that he’d fought against

It until It gutted him, but there was no sign that he was making a

mad, frantic struggle against something invisible; it was a

controlled fight against something he could see – something that

left paw prints on his chest.” The younger agent frowned and then

moved toward the front entrance of Pitt’s home. “Maybe he did

believe his friend after all…or maybe he knew something…”

“And you thought I’d laugh at you because…?”

“You’re not amused or disturbed by the concept that I came up with

these thoughts just by looking into Scully’s eyes? This is stuff –

crazy stuff at that – that I should have come up with before we

even reached the airport!”

Skinner shook his head and chuckled, “Believe me, I’ve seen a lot

weirder things happen between you two. Maybe you tried thinking so

much about the case, too much of a pressure to find all the answers

clouded your mind and it was up to Scully to use her magic whatever-

it-is-she-has-over-you to clear it.” Shrug. “Maybe you did see

something she saw in her eyes, and it’ll all come clear soon.”

A shy, agreeing nod from Mulder was shortly followed by the deep,

groaning creak of the front door opening.

XxXxXxXxX

DENCH RESIDENCE

TUSCOLA, ILLINOIS

4:47 PM

As the wind picked up and a storm looked imminent, Bill Dench

removed his hat and entered the house.

“Bob?”

Shrugging off his coat he mentally evaluated the last few days in a

desperate bid to seek the answers that nobody else seemed fit to

find. Unsurprisingly, though, nothing came to mind, so he shook

his head and paced out into the kitchen. He had a few minutes

before he should probably get back out on the road and question

some of the locals in Solus, but he wanted to take this opportunity

to take a long swig of cold beer and speak with Randolf – who’d

been driven here a little earlier for safety.

“Bob!”

When silence was the only answer his empty home delivered, broken

only a second later by the distant roll of thunder, the sheriff

quickly paced into the living room…

Only to see, lying in a large pool of blood in the center of the

room, the mutilated, beheaded corpse of his beloved pet Alsatian.

A hand shot up to cover his mouth before the vomit spewed

everywhere, and then he ran as fast as he could back out to his car.

The animal supposedly loose in the area could easily be blamed for

the torn and bloodied torso of his dog, but he knew full well who

was responsible for the saw he’d also seen on the living room floor.

XxXxXxXxX

Eyes narrowed.

Ears lifted to attention.

Cold tongue swept over the tops of sharp, blood-stained teeth.

It paced along the road, effortlessly missing the cars passing

hurriedly by, and watched Bob Randolf yelling out at the top of his

voice and waving a blood-drenched grocery bag above his head.

People stopped to stare in shock.

But they didn’t see.

‘Make them.’

As the distant voice struck into the creature’s brain like the

coming lightning, It lowered Its body nearer to the ground and

speeded up Its gait toward Randolf.

XxXxXxXxX

1766 MEKKE AVENUE

SOLUS, ILLINOIS

Aside from the pentagrams painted in dark red on every door in the

house, Skinner and Mulder found little in their brief search of the

late Greg Pitt’s residence to implicate that he had anything to do

with the phantom beast’s existence…

…Until they entered his bedroom.

“What the hell is all this?” the assistant director croaked,

glancing at the candles and altar on the bedside cabinet before

turning in a circle to look at all four walls, which were

completely covered in poorly-painted pentagrams, foreign,

unintelligible verses and crude pencil drawings of black cats.

Taking it all in as well, Mulder looked down at the unusual diagram

painted on the floorboards and felt the breath catch momentarily in

his lungs. “‘The Triangle of the Art’…” he whispered, almost to

himself. “He really did know something.” There was a thoughtful

pause, but then he shook his head and moved to pick up the large

book from beside the small altar. “Pentagrams are traditionally

used to attract good spirits – to protect its bearer…”

Stale air filled with dubious silence as Skinner frowned and looked

once again at all four walls.

“Protect him from what?” he finally asked, shooting another brief

glance at the drawings before turning his attention back on Mulder

– who was now reading the hand-written passages in the book.

“‘It wasn’t meant to happened this way. All I wanted to do was

make things better for Bob – try bring back Jessica. I know I

don’t know about this stuff and I shouldn’t have tried it, but

Tommy assured me it was easy and would be the best solution… No

idea what I’ve brought back, but it ain’t Jess, for sure.'”

Skinner approached as he silently, intently watched Mulder skim

through several pages and then continue,

“‘Bob saw It today – for real. He told me about It, and I tried to

laugh like everyone else, but I know he’s not lying. In a way he’s

lucky though – I might not be able to see It, but I can sense It,

and at least It doesn’t haunt his dreams.'” More pages were turned

over, but Mulder found himself pausing to soak in what he saw

before reading out loud. “‘I tried to reverse what I’d done but

that failed. Then I tried to control it for good…but now I think

somebody else controls It, or It even controls Itself. I saw It

kill someone today, and I never wanted that! Never. What am I

gonna do?'”

“Somebody’s intervening?” Skinner piped up, staring at the open

book resting in the younger man’s hands.

“He tried to play God for his best friend, but somebody with more

power wanted to play God for their own purposes.”

“But who?”

Closing the book and shaking his head as the storm outside begun to

gain momentum, Mulder looked up with uncertainty creasing his brow,

and both men stared at each other in silence.

XxXxXxXxX

“Ah, Dana! I heard you were awake! How are you feeling?”

It took several long moments for Scully to break free of her

thoughtful trance and register the voice, let alone realize that

there was somebody hovering beside her hospital bed. Still the

image of those piercing eyes and blood-stained teeth ingrained on

the insides of her eyelids refused to let her be, and now she had

the added worry as to what Mulder was up to. A clap of lightning

brought reality back into focus, and she shook her head as she

looked up at the dark haired woman.

“I’m…uh…fine,” she started, a little hesitantly. “Sore and

very foggy on the events after the attack, but considering what the

alternative could have been, I’m very well, Doctor…?”

The tall, neatly-dressed woman smiled, stowed the clipboard she’d

lifted from the end of the bed under her arm, and then offered her

hand to shake Dana’s. “I’m Doctor Sowlitzer, I was here when you

were brought in,” she declared, lowering her eyes to the charts

attached to the board she’d pulled back out from under her arm.

“Considering the excessively high level of amino acids found in

your bloodstream – in turn, overproducing serotonin – the extended

sleep pattern is to be expected, but–”

“Amino acids?” Scully frowned. She’d been attacked, not ingested

something to knock her body’s levels off-balance…

Thunder echoed in the room as heavy rain attacked the building, and

Sowlitzer frowned herself. She’d been told her patient was a

medical doctor, so surely the woman knew what Amino acids were?

“Ye-es,” she awkwardly replied. “When you were admitted, we

stitched the four deep scratches on your right forearm and took a

blood sample, which showed extremely unbalanced levels.

Fortunately – if not surprisingly – they seem to have sorted

themselves out, but we’re still waiting on some other test results

to see if they explain your amnesia.”

Still frowning, Dana looked down at her bandaged arm. She was

still trying to understand what she had meant by ‘It doesn’t like

strangers’ and why she had said it to her partner earlier before

his quick departure, and make sense of the jumbled thoughts tearing

her mind in all directions. But…very unstable Amino levels

balancing themselves out without any kind of medical therapy? It

was the scientific side of the case she really had no hold over…

…Or maybe it was the scientific fact necessary to tie some of the

extraordinary scenarios together…

Her frown deepened as her legs swung out of the bed. “Can I look

at that chart quickly, please?”

Sowlitzer shrugged her shoulders and handed the clipboard over –

looking up at the window as the thunder and lightning outside grew

louder and more frequent. “As I explained to your…uh…partner?

Your case is odd, but not unheard of. We had a young boy in at the

start of the new year with similar symptoms who’d been attacked by

a rabid dog.”

Scully looked down the list of numbers and other statistics –

barely registering the female doctor’s voice. “A rabid dog?” she

asked, distractedly.

“Yes. I don’t know the ins and outs of his case as he was mainly

dealt with by his doctor in Solus – Doctor David – but the boy’s

condition worsened shortly after the levels in his system rectified

themselves, and the authorities brought him here.” Sowlitzer

paused and shook her head as she added in disgust, “That was also

when they found out about how medicine wasn’t the only thing that

guy was practicing.”

*And…Who’s ‘Doc David’?*

The FBI agent’s head snapped up to stare at the doctor, and flashes

of what had happened during and after the attack at the morgue

returned to her memory with each beat of rain against the windows.

*What Bob is seeing though, isn’t an hallucination, though…*

*It’s okay. My name’s Doctor Tom David – I’m Mister Randolf’s

local physician*

*’Delusional’ is maybe a little over-exaggeration concocted by

Sheriff Dench to make his report look more aesthetically pleasing

to his own ego*

*That doesn’t explain what Randolf has been reporting, or – more to

the point – why you’re here…*

“What do you mean?” she queried, passing the medical notes back.

“You mean you don’t know – never heard – about him?” At the blank

expression on Scully’s face, Sowlitzer suddenly became nervous and

closed off – quickly looking away at anything to break eye contact,

and giving an awkward shrug of her shoulders. “It must just be

local lore then.”

Scully wasn’t ready to be deterred from finding out the facts so

easily. “What did you mean by that?”

Lightning struck, accompanied by a ear-deafening crack of thunder

as the female doctor once again gave a dismissive shrug of her

shoulders.

“Doctor Sowlitzer?”

“It’s not really my place to discuss something that’s not common

knowledge, but Doctor David had his medical license revoked two

months ago ‘cos they found out that he’d been dabbling pretty

heavily in Black Magic or something like that. There was no proof

that he’d been using it to make people ill, but the board

definitely couldn’t take the risk of having him handling people’s

lives so freely. Personally, I never understood what good that

would do – I mean, if he was experimenting with that rubbish, what

good would taking away a bit of paper do? It’s not even as if they

got him to leave the area. I didn’t know him too well – he didn’t

come into Tuscola all that often – but when I did see him, he came

over as a very strange guy…bad attitude towards new people.”

*It doesn’t like strangers*

Eyes widened as far as they could, and Scully focused her complete

attention on the doctor. Finally things were beginning to make

more sense than they had twenty-four hours ago. There was an

unavoidable paranormal element that Mulder would have to unravel,

but at least she had a possible direction to point accusations in.

“Did you tell any of this to Agent Mulder – my partner?”

“He didn’t ask…It didn’t seem relevant. Besides, he was clearly

too distracted. Anyway, I have other patients to see. I just

stopped by to let you know that when you’re feeling up to it,

you’re free to go. There’s nothing else we can do for you, and

unless the extra test results come back saying something to the

contrary, you’re going to be fine in a couple of weeks. Is there

anything else you’d like to ask?”

Before a couple of seconds had even passed for the federal agent to

consider her answer the doctor rudely gave a nod of her head and

quickly left the room – leaving Scully alone, still gently rubbing

at the bandage on her forearm and mouth hanging agape in shock.

XxXxXxXxX

As the violent storm continued its attack on the northern towns of

Douglas County, Deputy Michael Grovener – who’d received a call

from the sheriff five minutes ago ordering him to find Bob Randolf

– edged cautiously down Main Street toward the visually impaired

man. He hadn’t understood the urgency of Dench’s direction, but as

he eyed the bag soaked so heavily with blood that it was a wonder

the contents hadn’t broken free yet being waved ceremoniously in

the air, he had every reason to be comforted by the feel of his

hand resting on his holstered gun.

“It’s here!” Randolf’s trembling voice cried out as loud as it

could. “You wouldn’t believe me, but It’s here!”

As per human nature, Curiosity was too strong for the townsfolk of

Solus to ignore, and they all gathered to stare in disgust at the

man causing such a ruckus.

Grovener approached, drawing his weapon – his cold, stinging eyes

too set straight ahead to notice the black beast stalking Its way

up behind him, or the man shrouded in shadows to his right.

XxXxXxXxX

“Mulder.”

“Mulder, it’s me.”

With a lazy smile lifting his features, Mulder rested his head

against the back in the passenger seat as Skinner drove them to

Main Street. He’d only been away from the hospital for a couple

hours, but having spent the whole night before at her bedside, it

felt like he’d abandoned her for a lifetime, the overwhelming

regret he felt at his raised temper shortly before his departure

making the distance between them seem greater.

“Hey, Me,” he teased, combing a hand through his drenched hair.

“You okay?”

“I’ve been released from the hospital and just getting a cab to

come find you. I just found something out that might help us with

this case.” Scully paused and watched as the taxi she’d called for

pulled up outside the hospital.

“Ditto. Skinner and I just checked out Greg Pitt’s home and it

turns out he inadvertently summoned this thing instead of his

friend’s wife using black magic he learnt from somebody we only

know as ‘Tommy’–”

“Tom David,” she cut in before quickly asking the driver to take

her to Solus. “Doctor Tom David.”

“*What*?” The exclamation – almost washed out by the accompanying

crack of thunder – was filled with a mixture of confusion,

disbelief and surprise. Mulder sat upright in his seat as all

senses went on alert, and Skinner turned his attention away from

the treacherous road ahead just long enough to shoot a slightly

worried glance of his own at the younger man. “The guy we met at

the morgue?”

“My doctor told me David’s practice was stopped because it was

revealed he was heavily playing with Black Magic. I called the

guys to ask them to dig up anything they could on him, but think

about it: who showed up at the morgue not long after I was

attacked?”

“Shit…”

“Apparently a boy displaying similar symptoms to those which I’ve

been suffering from since the incident at the morgue was under

David’s care until his condition worsened to the point his parents

took him to the hospital.”

“Jesus Christ, he…he touched you! I…” Mulder’s voice trailed

off briefly as he cursed himself yet again, before whispering, “I

let him examine your arm and that was when you collapsed… Scu–”

“It’s okay,” she assured from the other end of the line – keeping

her voice low so that the cab driver didn’t overhear her side of

the conversation too much. “Honestly, I’m going to be fine.

Besides, I think his touching me and my unconsciousness were purely

coincidental.”

Mulder frowned and shifted uncomfortably. “What do you mean?”

“This is gonna sound strange coming from me, but… *Something*

undoubtedly attacked me, and to have caused the damage it did on my

arm, it has to be something solid–”

“But S–”

“What if this creature–…What if it’s becoming real – changing

from a spirit to something a lot more violent and permanent?”

Long seconds of uneasy silence ensued as Mulder’s jaw fell open in

shock. It wasn’t that he thought she was crazy, but…God, Scully

pitching a paranormal theory he should have done ages ago? Scully

even making a passing glance at something as far out of the reach

of the laws of Science as *that*?

“Mulder?”

“Are you sure you’re okay, Scully?”

“I told you after we accepted the case that there was more than

likely a perfectly reasonable explanation for the murders…I still

think there is, but that it has to go hand-in-hand with the good

ol’ x-files explanation. You’re the expert when it comes to

knowing the possibility or regularity of this kind of phenomena,

but…” Yet again Scully’s hesitant voice stops as she tried –

desperately – to iron out the knot of theories in her head. “The

organs missing from Pitt are ones we know are often used in ritual

sacrifice. My doctor says my Amino acid levels were severely

imbalanced when I was admitted to the hospital, and that can only

have happened if I’d eaten something to boost my energy, but the

last time I’d eaten before the attack was on the way to the airport

in D.C!…Maybe contaminated blood was absorbed into my system from

this creature’s claws when it scratched me…” A deep breath

followed by a sweaty palm wiping down the front of her face, and

then, “Look, none of this fits into conventional lines of thought,

and I really can’t believe I’m saying any of this, but if there’s

anything I’ve learnt from being with you for over a decade it’s

that sometimes it’s wise not to turn a blind eye to the fantastic,

and I think that’s what we’re purposely being made to do here. Is

it at all possible David is dealing with enough black magic to

control this thing?”

The rental car slowed to a stop, and Mulder looked up to just see

the red light through the heavy rain attacking the windshield. He

bit down on his lower lip and gave a agreeing nod of his head.

“Pitt raises this thing, but he was inexperienced so he has no

control over it,” he replied, plotting out the new theory. “I

think It feeds off Randolf’s emotions, and those were enough to

help it exist on this plane, but then David – who suggested the

invocation in the first place – took his chance and now has

possession of the spirit.”

“But why a black panther?”

“That one I still don’t know…I mean, it could just have been a

bad consequence of Pitt’s unfamiliarity with the ritual, but It

seems to have far too much of a connection to Randolf. Maybe you

should get back on to the guys and see if they can dig up anything

from Randolf’s past. I gotta go – we got a tip-off that Randolf’s

on Main Street brandishing a severed head. I should be able to get

more answers there.”

“What do you mean by that? Mulder, who gave you the tip?” her

panicked voice choked into the cellphone.

“Our supposedly friendly Doctor David. Look, we’re just pulling up

there now. You take care – I’ll speak to you later.”

“Mulder, no! Wait until I’m there!”

Silence.

“Mulder?!” She was practically yelling into the mouthpiece, and

the cab driver looked up briefly into the rear-view mirror as the

car entered the long stretch of corn and soybean fields separating

Tuscola and Solus. “Mulder!” Eyes flicked down to stare at the

phone display, only to see the ‘NO SERVICE’ message flashing

tauntingly on and off.

XxXxXxXxX

MAIN STREET

SOLUS, ILLINOIS

5:54 PM

With coat collars pulled up to shield themselves as much as

possible from the unrelenting storm flooding the streets, Mulder

and Skinner got out of the Ford and rounded the corner, only to

almost trip over the mutilated – almost unrecognizable – corpse of

Sheriff Bill Dench and bump into Deputy Grovener standing beside it

with his head lowered.

He slowly looked up at the sound of their approach and mournfully

shook his head.

“I was…I–” He turned a fraction and pointed at Bob Randolf, who

now stood at the other end of the road – the useless, disintegrated

paper bag now lost in one of the storm drains courtesy of the

running rain, and the severed head of Dench’s pet rolling in a

circle at his feet. “I was approaching him when Bill…He turned

up in the Rancher, but then…” Grovener shook his head yet again

– desperately fighting against the tears clouding his vision. “I

didn’ see it…He didn’ see it…But *he* saw it!” The accusing

finger stabbed the air again to point in Bob’s direction. “The

next thing I knew, somet’ing p-p-pushed me over and blood was…Oh,

God, his flesh was just bein’ ripped away, and there was so much

blood, but I still couldn’ see anything!”

“Because you never look, and that’s why Sheriff Dench had to pay

for his ignorance – for his ‘Old School’ way of thinking.”

The two men from the FBI sharply turned with weapons drawn.

“So, who sent you this time, Doctor David?” Mulder seethed through

grit teeth – the memory of him ignorantly standing aside as this

convincing liar touched Scully’s wounds refusing to let him be. “I

don’t think Sheriff Dench is in much of a condition to use as a

false alibi this time.”

Lightning tore through the clouds, illuminating the older man

standing only a few feet away.

“People meddle with things they should never touch. People turn up

where they don’t belong. People commit crimes but remain

unpunished. Why does everybody become so blind and deaf to these

things, Mr. Mulder?” Tom David ground out, keeping both hands deep

in the pockets of his anorak. “Oh, and how’s your partner, by the

way? She seemed rather shaken up at the morgue…”

“Where’s the creature, sir?” Skinner barked before Mulder had

chance to react – briefly glancing over his shoulder for any clue

that the panther was still around.

David let out a chuckle, but refused to answer.

“You don’t have control over It anymore, do you?” the younger agent

hesitantly queried, taking a step forward and pushing the last

comment directed at him away.

“You’ve got it all wrong.”

“It’s coming back!” Randolf suddenly cried out to anybody or

anything that could hear him over the hurricane.

All faces turned to stare at him questioningly for a second before

Mulder turned back and demanded of the doctor, “How’ve I got it

wrong? Tell me. Explain it to me.”

“Greg lied to me. We were talking a few days after Jess Randolf’s

funeral, and he said how much he wished he could do one of those

resurrection spells like in the movies so his friend would be happy

again…” David shook his head and lowered it for a second as

inside his coat pockets he continued to rub thumb and forefingers

along the metal concealed there. “I told him it was easy, but only

if you could handle that kind of power – if you’d worked with the

dark arts before. He told me he had, years ago, but he’d never

been able to do *that*.”

“You believed him?”

Clueless, Skinner remained silent – gun steadily trained on the

still figure of the doctor.

Likewise for Deputy Mike Grovener.

At the other end of the road, as thick clouds begun to circle above

their heads, Bob Randolf desperately searched left and right for

the source of the distant voices he could hear. He was angry the

death of the sheriff had caused the gathered townsfolk to run away

before they’d properly seen what he could, but at the same time it

relieved him because he didn’t think he could bear to witness

another death.

When the creature materialized into view through the fog forever more

marring his vision – yellow piercing eyes fixing on blue clouded

ones – he knew it was time.

“I thought I could help,” David continued, reluctantly. “When I

received a call from Bob’s ophthalmologist at Jarman ten days later

reporting the symptoms of possible CBS, and then a week after that

when Heather Mallory brought her boy to me with the strange bite

wound on his leg, I knew that it had gone awry…that Greg had no

control over It. I tried to send It back to the Hell It came

from, but It was too strong. It… It feeds on emotions – the

ultimate pet peeves of anybody with a mystical connection to It. I

don’t know what It gained from Greg, other than his life, but It

fed on my hatred of the people that just waltz into this town, milk

it of whatever they can and then disappear again – that’s why the

victims over the last month have been new members of the community

and why your partner was almost the next….why you two will be as

well if you don’t leave here as soon as possible.”

Slow steps followed by tiny splashes of water on the tarmac road

started out toward the three men, and then increased pace to a run.

Somewhere nearby there was the sound of tires screeching to a halt.

Mulder felt an inexplicable shiver run up his spine – making the

sensitive hairs on the back of his neck stand on end and his head

turn to look over his shoulder.

“But there’s something else driving this creature – something that

made my attempts to dismiss it impossible,” the gray-haired doctor

continued shakily as he sensed the approach of the unseen entity.

“It has to be guardian to the man that killed It.”

Skinner’s eyes opened wide, but as he turned to glance at Mulder,

the younger agent fell to the ground – a loud scream of pain

rushing past his lips.

“Mulder!” Scully cried out as she quickly rounded the corner in

time to see several inexplicable slash marks tear through his

Armani suit and chest. “Wh–?” She pulled her gun, but there was

nothing she could do but watch helplessly as her partner was

attacked by something she could neither see nor explain.

Time seemed to slow in the minds of the interlopers, but Tom David

focused his attention on the visually-impaired man who’d taken

several steps to the middle of the road, and then quickly removed

the two metallic items from inside his custom-altered coat

pockets. Grovener’s weapon fired, but not in time to stop the

doctor from throwing the unknown, round objects at Randolf.

Lightning struck the road where Randolf had been earlier.

Light reflected on the surface of the flying pieces.

A bullet ripped through David’s chest.

Sharp, bloodied teeth released their catch.

Scully dropped to her knees beside Mulder’s unconscious, bloody,

discarded body.

Piercing eyes sharply turned to intently watch as the two headlamps

landed by Randolf’s feet, and that was when the memory returned.

//Roaming the open land, hoping to find food and maybe a mate as

the dark night enveloped It; the unending rain pelting against Its

fur; crossing the makeshift road; hearing the screeching tires and

looking up into two blinding saucers of light before unspeakable

pain ravaged Its body, and then………nothing\\

Suddenly, It knows who the true threat to It is.

Despite his open mind when it came to weird stuff – beliefs that

had certainly only been strengthened by this case – Deputy Michael

Grovener had had no true handle on just how weird things could be

until he – as well as Agent Scully and AD Skinner – looked over at

the two headlamps.

Paw followed paw followed paw and then the creature leapt into the

air – ready to pounce on Its prey.

“Go in peace,” David whispered from where he lay writhing on the

sidewalk.

And in that moment a lightning bolt struck the earth mere

centimeters from Randolf’s feet, sending him hurtling backwards

several meters and a surge of energy causing the headlamps from the

car he’d crashed four months ago to momentarily illuminate. Three

faces watched in shock as the beams revealed the shape of a panther

in mid-pounce, but then the light faded…

Absolutely everything went still.

XxXxXxXxX

==========

EPILOGUE

==========

3605 N STREET NW

WASHINGTON, DC

MAY 4th, 2005

8:21 PM

“Wow.”

Wide, blue eyes stared in awe and then blinked.

“I mean, *wow*!”

Sitting down on the couch, Scully gave an uncertain shrug of her

shoulders and a just-short-of-genuine smile. The last two weeks

had been a living nightmare she prayed to God she could forget, and

as fascinating as it may be to Kenny as he sat there with a can of

Coke in one hand and listened to her recital of the events, ‘wow’

was far from being the word she would have used to sum it all up.

It had taken fifteen minutes for the EMS vehicles to arrive in

Solus due to the debris kicked up by the tumultuous storm that had

miraculously cleared after the beams from the damaged car

headlights died. Questions had been asked, answers had been

disbelieved and Skinner had had to try explain as much as he could

of what he understood – which was very little – whilst the

paramedics worked on the three injured men and Dana frantically

begged her unconscious partner to hold on.

The next forty-eight hours had seen all three patients in critical

status, but only two made it beyond then; both Mulder and Randolf

regaining consciousness on the 22nd.

“So, this creature was the ghost of the thing that caused Randolf’s

car crash?” Kenny Andrews queried, sipping on his drink.

Skinner had returned to D.C to deliver the necessary paperwork on

the case and inform Andrews of what had happened. The Kid had

wanted to visit his friends at the hospital in Tuscola, but had

been trying to wrap up the profiling case he’d been n when they’d

left, so this was the first time he was able to catch up properly.

“It would seem so,” Scully sighed reluctantly – knowing that by

doing so she was admitting to some belief in ghosts.

An awkward pause for thought.

“But how the hell are you gonna explain any of this? I mean, how

and who do you prosecute?” the younger man pressed with a frown.

“What does Mulder think?”

‘Too much,’ she inwardly chuckled. Despite his lethargic state,

her partner had certainly been the master at reeling off summations

on their experience, much to her chagrin, although she did partly

blame herself for letting him use that damn laptop in the bed.

“Mulder’s been making a lot of reference to Shamanisitic and Native

American beliefs – about the black panther spirit’s power and

guardian energy. So much of those two days is inconceivable,

though, I really couldn’t tell you either way or the other. The

x-files explanation will go on file saying Pitt, David and Randolf

were all responsible in some way for the murders, but Pitt was the

instigator – that a mystical, vengeful spirit killed anybody that

went against Its masters. The official explanation? It never

happened.”

“I got a letter from Mike saying he’d moved on and would contact me

soon, but he didn’t tell me anything else,” Andrews sighed,

shaking his head before combing a hand through his black hair.

“Seriously? They’re sweeping it under the carpet?”

“Assistant Director Skinner says the senior US Senator from

Illinois ordered us not to take this further, and he thinks it

might be for the best – to let them take care of things.”

“What about you?”

She looked up and fixed her gaze on him at the sound of the

concerned tone, but then quickly looked away and shook her head.

“I guess he’s right. We were there to prove Randolf didn’t kill his

friend, and we did that – our involvement was fi–”

“No, I meant ‘how are you doing’?”

“Me? Oh, I’m fine…”

“Mulder still letting you get away with that one?”

Scully smiled and checked the time on her watch. “No – I wish!”

she teased. “Seriously, though, I’m doing okay – the scratches on

my arm healed so that there’s just light scarring there, and I’m

just happy he’s doing well. I gotta give him supplements to ensure

his amino acid levels stay balanced for a few more days, but

hopefully after that everything will be as ‘back to normal’ as it

can be for us.” She paused, let out a sigh and then raised to her

feet barely managing to conceal a large yawn by raising a hand to

her mouth. “Did you want to go in and see him?”

“You sure that’s alright? I don’t wanna disturb him if he should

be resting…”

“Resting? You are still referring to the same Fox William Mulder

that I live with, aren’t you?”

Kenny laughed and stood also.

~~~~~

Mulder looked up from the laptop screen as the bedroom door clicked

open, and smiled as Kenny came in. He closed the computer up and

reached to place it carefully on the nightstand – wincing slightly

at the pain in his chest the movement caused.

“Coming to laugh at the helpless, fallen agent, Kid?” he teased,

outstretching a hand to shake Kenny’s.

“Well, it was a thought, but then I just learnt from Scully that

you’re not as ‘helpless’ as you like to make out and figured maybe

I should come in here and kick your ass instead.”

Mulder let out a small chuckle – blinking several times to clear

the sleep from his eyes. “She worries too much. I told her ‘a

couple more days or so and then we can go on another little trip to

the forest’, but she doesn’t believe me. Then again, she’s not

exactly rushing to repeat the theories she suggested in Solus…”

“She’s a scientist, Mulder! She may be more open ‘cos of all the

stuff you’ve experienced together, but a part of her will always be

reluctant to accept anything paranormal – that’s what makes her

her.”

Silence and then a nod as Mulder mulled over the past fortnight.

If it had been up to him, he probably would have been back at the

office after their return to D.C a few days before the end of

April, but Scully, Skinner, the Gunmen and even Mrs. Scully had all

been on hand to make sure he remained in bed to recouperate.

He was impressed they actually let him use the toilet on his own!

‘A big, phantom cat clawed my chest, that’s all!’ he’d whined to

apparently deaf ears. ‘I’m not incapacitated!’

‘I don’t care, Mulder – this time you’re gonna properly take it

easy…at least for a week.’

Despite the small ache when he stretched too much, he felt fine

now, but nobody seemed to wanna know that, and he had to wonder

if they just liked to see him in this state!

“Anyway, what happened to Randolf in the end? Scully didn’t tell

me,” Kenny piped up again after a few minutes.

“Bob’s receiving psychiatric help to get him over the last five

months of his life,” the agent in the bed replied sleepily. “Maybe

tamper down those emotions. He completely lost his sight, so there

were fears that might push him completely over the edge, but it

seems to work out better for him – at least now the CBS isn’t

affecting him as badly… Certainly no claims so far of seeing any

kinds of creatures…”

“No sightings at all?”

With a shake of his head, the bed-bound agent sighed, “You know,

everybody mocked Bob because of what he reported seeing, and yet –

irony of ironies – before the accident, there were numerous

reported sightings of a black figure disappearing into the woods

bordering the town, and I even managed to track down a local

newspaper report from a couple years back stating that Sheriff

Dench had taken a couple pot-shots at it.” He paused only for a

second to yawn, and then continued, “Bob managed to kill the local

legend, but in the process became the cause of a new one being

born. Nobody wanted to believe him because they couldn’t see it

and there was the possibility of it really being right on their

doorsteps as opposed to out in the fields.”

“Do you think he knew he was the main cause of the people dying?

D’ you think he purposely dwelled on those emotions so that the

spirit would act upon them?”

Mulder considered the question for several moments – remembering

his meeting with the petrified man at the Sheriff’s Department.

“No,” he replied, confidently. “He wanted It to stop – to stop

seeing It at all. Maybe it was that feeling that made It do the

opposite and stay there.”

~~~~~

‘Case file #X121692B

Agent of record: Special Agent Dana Katherine Scully.

For centuries mankind has debated on the subject of if

there is an afterlife or not. Having grown up in a

Catholic family, I was taught that the fate of our souls

is up to God after our bodies have ceased to exist.

However, scientific logic states that there is nothing

after death. Though very little of this case can be

explained, and my personal accounts of witnessed events

may not be wholly depended upon, this investigation

certainly proved that there are just too many questions

out there for us to ignore all the answers…

…And maybe, sometimes, it really is possible for you to

take that second chance – whether you’re human or animal.’

XxXxXxXxX

THE END