PROLOGUE Burley,
Idaho
11thTuesday: 3:08 a.m.
The countryside is
dark, its pastoral hues shrouded by a blanket of snow.
Heavy gray clouds cloak the night sky. Sporadic stands of
trees, shorn of their leafy adornment, stretch craggy
fingers toward the ashen heavens.
An ancient black hearse makes its way slowly down a rural
road. Its yellowed headlights stab through the darkness
cutting a sickly swath that illuminates the bent reeds of
field grass that poke haphazardly through the snowdrifts
along the roadside. The cumbersome vehicle pulls into a
wide driveway, crawling toward a house that sits a short
distance from the road.
The house is a two-story; its appearance gives the
definite impression that it has seen better days. The
siding is weathered with age, the trim is flaking around
the windows, the screen door does not close properly, and
the steps up to the porch are rickety and uneven.
The car slows to a stop and a tall, dour-looking old man
in a dark suit exits the vehicle and ambles slowly up the
porch steps. The screen door squeaks his arrival and
after jiggling the recalcitrant knob on the front door,
he enters the house.
He proceeds slowly through the darkened room skirting the
obstacle course of furniture toward the staircase to the
second floor. As he ascends the stairs, the old wood
announces every bit of his progress with a creak, despite
his efforts to walk softly.
He gingerly turns the knob on the door leading to the
largest bedroom. It turns smoothly and the door swings
gently inward, a short squeal of a rusty hinge heralds
his arrival. He stands in the doorway, frozen for just a
second as a shadowy shape sits up in the bed.
Twin gasps echo through the room.
The woman in bed breaks the silence. "For crying out
loud, George, are you trying to scare the last bit of
life out of me?" Her voice is slightly high-pitched
and just a little breathless. "You running short of
customers that you need to scare me to death?"
Regaining his composure, chiding himself for his nervous
start, George replies, "Rest yourself, Tahoma. You
know I had to work on Zeke McPherson tonight. Service is
tomorrow early."
"And dont I know it. I can smell you from
clear over here. How many times I have to tell you not to
wear those smelly clothes up here in our room? Go
downstairs and get changed." She nestles back under
the covers.
At his departing back she adds, "And dont you
leave them where Ill stumble over them tomorrow.
Put them where they belong so I can tend to them
properly."
George softly sighs as he closes the door and returns
downstairs, not taking the care this time to be silent.
He lets the warped screen door slam just a bit too loud
and starts down the porch steps.
He stops short of the second step as a bright flash of
light blurs his vision. He blinks rapidly trying to
restore his sight. A red-purple light illuminates his
face as a blast of hot air causes him to stagger. He
stumbles when he tries to regain his footing on the
slippery porch.
The atmosphere crackles and sparks, the porch light
explodes in a flurry of glass. The aura swiftly engulfs
him and George's screams shatter the silence of the bleak
night.
Footsteps echo from inside the house, growing louder as
they near the front. The door is flung open and George's
wife bursts through, only to stop suddenly at the sight
before her. A small scream finds its way out of her
throat. Her eyes roll shut as she faints. She falls,
striking the back of her head on the doorknob.
************************
Hoover Building
Deputy Director Alvin Kersh's Office
Wednesday: 7:30 a.m.
Assistant Director Skinner is waiting in the outer area
of Kersh's office. There are no seats, save the one at
Kersh's assistants desk, which is empty. He is
clearly waiting for someone. There is little to no
traffic in the hallway at this early hour, so he easily
hears the approaching footsteps following the sounds of
the elevator.
Agent Scully comes around the corner.
Skinner watches her approach and automatically catalogs
the subtle markers of the stress she has been under for
the past few months. He notices that while her black suit
is impeccably tailored, and her hair perfectly styled,
her makeup can't quite conceal the dark circles under her
eyes. Her face is pale and drawn; any prenatal glow she
might be expected to have is absent.
"Good morning, Agent Scully," Skinner begins,
but her rigid demeanor does not invite further
conversation beyond the perfunctory greeting. She is
closed off; her armor is clearly in place.
"Sir." Scully's greeting is as crisp as her
appearance.
From past experience, they both know an early morning
meeting in Kersh's office does not bode well. Skinner
leads the way to the door, opens it and steps aside to
let Scully go through first.
Deputy Director Kersh is seated behind his desk, perusing
a file in front of him. It has the familiar red markings
of an X-File. He does not look up as Scully and Skinner
enter the room.
"Assistant Director Skinner, Agent Scully...sit
down."
Scully and Skinner make their way to the two seats in
front of Kershs desk. Skinner glances covertly at
Scully. Her gaze is locked on Kersh, who continues to
review the file in front of him, reading and flipping
pages...a power play. After a few moments of this, he
closes the file, laces his fingers together and rests his
hands on top of the file, an unspoken punctuation mark.
"Welcome back, Agent Scully, again, my condolences
on the loss of Agent Mulder. It is always difficult to
lose an agent no matter what the circumstance. But
regardless, we need to move forward and focus our
attention on current, viable cases assigned to this
department.
"I called this meeting to inform you and Assistant
Director Skinner, the Bureau is placing the file on Agent
Mulder on an inactive status. There will be no further
investigation into this matter."
Skinner angrily straightens in his chair.
Scully does not display a visible reaction to Kersh, but
Skinner notices that her hands tremble slightly as she
clasps them tightly in her lap.
Skinner tries to be reasonable. "With all due
respect, Deputy Director Kersh, this matter cannot be
considered resolved by any means. A federal agent was
kidnapped, tortured and murdered. No suspects have been
named..."
Kersh smoothly interrupts, "Indeed, and due to a
lack of forensic evidence or any viable leads, it is
deemed to be a waste of Bureau resource and manpower.
There will be no further pursuit. Any action in that
regard will be perceived as gross insubordination and
subject to summary censure and possible dismissal. The
X-Files division will remain open at this time until a
determination is made as to its validity within the
operations of the Bureau. Is that clear, Agent
Scully?"
Scully looks fixedly at Kersh.
"Agent Scully?" Kersh's tone demands a
response.
Scully slowly rises from her chair and moves the short
distance until she is just in front of his desk. She
leans forward slightly, resting her hands on the edge of
the desk. Her blue eyes, as cold and unyielding as steel,
never waver from Kersh's stare.
The tension is palpable. Kersh, seeming to sense a
threat, rises.
Scully straightens, matching his movement.
Skinner turns slightly in his seat, making himself ready
to respond to action from either side. The standoff
continues for a few more seconds. The office is deathly
quiet.
"Agent Scully...Ill ask you again...is that
clear?" His voice is low and ominous.
Scully is stone. She remains unmoving, unblinking for a
few seconds until she finally responds. Her voice is
severe, the disgust evident in the low, sharp tone.
"With all due respect, sir, I will never
consider the file on Agent Mulder inactive until the
truth is brought to light."
Kersh does not respond.
Scully holds the staring contest for a beat longer, then
turns and heads for the door without waiting for a
response or dismissal.
Skinner is mildly surprised when the door does not slam;
he admires her control. He shifts his attention back to
Kersh.
Skinner is incredulous. "For Gods sake, her
partner was just buried. Murdered. This is the support
you offer?"
Kersh sits down at his desk, picks up the red folder and
tosses it dismissively to the side. He looks across at
Skinner.
"If you feel Agent Scully is in need of emotional
counseling, I would advise you to order her to avail
herself of the services of the EAP. That will be all,
Assistant Director."
The dismissal evident, Skinner rises from his chair,
hesitates as if he has something further to add, then
after a brief second of consideration, he exits the
office, perversely satisfied as the door slams behind
him.
*************************
Skinner walks quickly down the hall to the elevator,
slowing as he approaches Scully.
She viciously stabs the button again.
"Agent Scully."
She turns her attention to Skinner. He can see she is
quietly seething. She stares at him defiantly, her blue
eyes stormy.
"Regardless of what Kersh says, I won't stop. I
can't stop. Not until those responsible are found,"
her voice is adamant, "And I will find them,
sir."
"Do you think that's appropriate right now? I know
you want to find those responsible but you have to stop
and consider...what about your..." he glances around
to assure himself of their solitude. "Your
situation?"
"I haven't stopped considering my situation
for a moment. But this is far from finished. It's owed to
Mulder. It's owed to..." her voice drops to a
whisper. "I have to make sure it's known," she
pauses to take a steadying breath. "I'll make
certain it's known what the cost was."
Skinner starts to reply but the elevator signals its
arrival. Scully steps in and jabs the button. She fixes
him with an icy stare. "I'm sorry, sir, but it
doesn't end with a funeral service and meaningless
platitudes mumbled by people with self-serving
agendas."
Skinner quickly thrusts his hand between the elevator
doors to keep them from closing. "No one wants to
get the people responsible for Mulders death more
than I do, Scully," he says in an intense murmur,
"And I will help you however I can. You know that.
But I won't let you kill yourself over it, or ruin your
life. I owe that much to Mulder. I think you need
to look in the mirror, long and hard, and ask yourself
just how far Mulder would want you to go. Don't lose
sight of where he'd want you to draw the line."
He removes his hand from where it holds the elevator open
and a few seconds later, the doors slide shut.
************************
Journal of Dana Scully
It has become a habit of mine, writing in a journal to
you. Cataloguing my thoughts, purging myself of fears and
emotions in a way that I was not courageous enough to do
with you in life. Even though you are gone, I find it a
comfort to be able to write these words to you even
though it is impossible that you will ever read them.
It is incomprehensible that our time together has come to
an end in this fashion and you have become a casualty of
that which you pursued for so many years - your unending,
unrelenting search for the truth. There were many times I
feared you would join the legion of victims, a ceaseless
roll call of death, but even when you were taken, I
thought once again you would cheat death and return to me
whole and unharmed.
My worst
nightmare has now become reality and each day I feel the
void left by your passing. Your name has become an
addendum to an unholy testament of deceit and lies,
written in blood and punctuated with tears, and I feel as
cold as the earth that now holds you in an icy embrace.
Without your
sustaining presence by my side, I must now continue the
journey we began so long ago. I have never felt so alone.
************************
X-Files Office
Wednesday: 7:48 a.m.
Sunlight streams through the few windows that decorate
the office. The small lamp on the desk casts an
additional small measure of illumination.
Scully is seated behind the desk, glasses on, reviewing
the case file before her, making notes on a pad off to
the side. A few scribbles later, she finishes and places
her notes in the file along with the original report. As
she gathers a small stack of related photos scattered on
the desk, her fingers nudge Mulder's nameplate. She looks
pensively at the shiny marker of Mulder's domain while
she absently closes the folder. Removing her glasses, she
leans back in the chair.
She reaches across and retrieves the nameplate. Her eyes
fill with moisture as she slowly caresses the square
letters with her thumb. The tears threaten to overflow
and Scully shuts her eyes against them and takes several
slow, deep breaths as she restores her inner calm.
Her reverie is interrupted as she hears the murmur of
several voices. The volume steadily increases as their
owners near the office. Scully places the nameplate back
in its appointed place. She squares her shoulders and
takes another steadying breath as her full attention
shifts to the approaching company.
"So, this is where they put you if you dont
play well with others."
"How does it feel to be an inmate in the loony bin,
John?"
Raucous male laughter accompanies the juvenile repartee.
Scully rolls her eyes. "The bureaus
finest," she mutters under her breath as she stands
to prepare for the coming interruption.
Agent Doggett comes through the doorway first, slightly
turned toward the two male agents following him. He does
not see that Scully is in the office and has been privy
to their conversation.
The other two agents are still chuckling at their own
quips. They swallow their merriment quickly when they see
the not-amused persona of Agent Scully.
Doggett notices their discomfort and turns to see Scully
coolly regarding the small group.
Her glance sweeps dismissively over the two agents. She
directs a greeting to Doggett. "Good morning."
The affront in her voice tells him she has heard every
word.
Embarrassed, he stammers, trying to cover their faux pas.
"Uh...morning," he glances back to the two
agents, "Um...Ill...uh, Ill catch you
guys later."
The visitors depart, their movements and muttered words
awkward and apologetic.
Doggett moves further into the office and half-heartedly
gestures at the door. "Some friends...they're just
curious."
"Let them satisfy their curiosity elsewhere. I'm
here to work."
As she speaks, Scully retrieves the file she has been
reviewing from the desk. She hands it to Doggett.
"This is our next assignment."
As he takes the file from her, Doggett tries for an
apology. "I'm really sorry. I just...uh...I know
this has to be hard for you."
"Thank you. I'm fine. Let's get to work."
Scully walks to the adjoining room to stand by the slide
projector and waits for Doggett. He flips off the light
switch and moves to join her. The first image is
displayed on the wall before them.
"White male, 62, undertaker by
profession...homicide...in Idaho...he was killed on his
front porch. His wife, who was upstairs in their bedroom,
upon hearing what sounded like...quote, 'ungodly
screams,' end quote...came downstairs, allegedly seeing
the homicide in progress...which, also according to her
account, looked like a scene from a bad science fiction
movie. She allegedly saw, in her words, what looked like
a monster. It upset her so badly she fainted, sustaining
a head injury when she struck her head on the front
doorknob."
Scully advances the projector to the next slide. The
image splashes upon the wall, a close-up picture of the
victim's face and neck--torn and bloody, the flesh
hanging in ribbons.
"Jeez." Doggett is awe-stricken.
"The victim had numerous deep lacerations. On his
head, torso, virtually every inch of his body."
Doggett walks closer to the image and studies the
gruesome sight. He glances at Scully. "By what, an
animal?"
"At this point it has been classified as a
homicide."
Doggett fidgets uncomfortably, disturbed by what he sees.
"Ive seen some violent crimes, I mean, some
seriously screwed up stuff, but...uh...this is extreme.
Is there demonstration of motive?"
"Not according to local PD."
"Is there any pattern...uh...ritual or
anything?"
Scully slowly shakes her head.
Doggett persists. "Is the wife a suspect?"
"The local PD says no. I'm not willing to rule out
that possibility until we talk to her."
"I have to admit, Agent Scully, I'm at a loss."
"Well, lets see if we can get some
answers."
************************
Burley, Idaho
Wednesday: 3:15 p.m.
The rental car pulls into the broad driveway. The snow
crunches under the car's wheels as it slows to a halt a
short distance from the black hearse. Marked and unmarked
police cars speckle the property.
A small knot of uniformed deputies and plainclothes
detectives are gathered near the steps to the front
porch. A tall, heavy-set man turns to observe the
newcomers.
As Agents Scully and Doggett exit the vehicle, he leaves
the group to meet them. He is wearing an ill-fitting dark
suit and his ample stomach strains the buttons of his
white shirt. The deep furrow between his eyebrows,
coupled with his impatient tone, make it evident he is
less than happy to see them.
"You the folks from the FBI?"
"Yes," Scully responds as she closes the car
door. She moves to the front of the vehicle matching
Agent Doggett's movements on the other side of the car.
"Detective Yale Abbott, Cassia County Sheriff's
Department."
Scully extends her hand in greeting. "Hi. Agent
Scully. Agent Doggett."
Detective Abbott limply shakes Scully's hand and rudely
turns his back on her. He gives Doggett a firm handshake
and addresses him directly. "We like to think we can
handle our own problems around here but a couple of
hotshots up in the county seat seem to think this is
beyond us. Not that we don't appreciate your coming out
all this way to give us a hand." His tone says
otherwise.
Scully is slightly peeved as she moves from behind
Abbott. She crosses her arms in front; her body language
displays her displeasure at the slight.
Seemingly unaware, Doggett replies. "Well, I hope we
can. I have to admit I'm a little baffled by what I've
seen."
"How so?"
Scully interjects, "Understand, Detective, cases
like yours are handled regularly by our unit. Agent
Doggett has only been with the X-Files a short
time."
Abbott finally acknowledges Scully, who continues
reasonably, "I can assure you, we're only here to
help you find answers and help bring about a resolution
to this case."
In a patronizing tone, Abbott talks down to Scully.
"Well, that's just what I was getting around to,
ma'am. Were pretty sure now that these marks were
made by an animal."
He gestures to the porch and then motions the agents to
follow him.
"Neighbors discovered the body, so there was
contamination of the general crime scene. My boys did a
real damn good job of separating the various shoe prints
and pulling this. See here?"
They ascend the steps and stop just short of the porch.
Abbott points at a smudged print in the blood splashed on
the porch. "Right there. See that?" Scully
squats down to get a better look at what Abbot has
indicated. The vague outline shows the owner of the print
has four toes.
Doggett squints at the print. "What is it?"
"It's not human, I know that." Abbott is smug.
Scully continues to study the print. "It's not quite
animal, either."
Abbott argues. "There're only four toes."
Scully speaks up at the two men. "That's not an
unheard of birth defect...uh...no more rare than
polydactylism."
Abbott is baffled. "What did she just say?"
Doggett gives a small shrug, "I assume she means it
could be human." He looks at Scully for
confirmation, "Is that a fair assumption?"
Scully stands and faces the two men. She gestures at the
print, slightly irritated. "I'm not going to assume
anything at this point."
Abbott glares at Scully who returns his gaze evenly.
An uneasy silence ensues.
Doggett shifts uncomfortably. "Well, I have to say I
worked a lot of homicides, but if the victim laid out
here for any time at all in a setting like this, it'd be
pretty remarkable if animals werent
attracted."
An uneasy silence ensues.
Scully quietly says, "I think that post-mortem
predation is definitely a consideration here, but I only
see one print and if it were an animal there would be
numerous prints all over here and in the yard."
She makes a motion at the group of deputies gathered a
few feet away.
They immediately look down and begin carefully looking
for clues they might have been stepping on all morning.
She looks at Doggett. "You agree, Agent
Doggett?"
Doggett sidesteps her remark. "I'm going to take a
look around." He leaves the group and enters the
house.
Abbott turns to Scully who has begun to survey their
surroundings carefully. She points at the light fixture
with its protruding jagged shards. "What happened to
this?"
"Probably some kids broke it out," he says
flatly.
Scully waits for a
few seconds to see if he will elaborate on his response.
When it becomes evident hes not going to say
anything further, she gives a short nod.
"Okay..." she says quietly to herself.
She begins to slowly
walk around the area where the attack took place.
"Why is the snow melted where the attack took place
but the steps and walkway are still snow-covered?"
"They probably put salt down or maybe they
shoveled."
"How many people only salt a small area of the
porch, Detective? Have you looked for a shovel?"
"No, we
havent," Abbott huffs. "Want to tell me
what any of this has to do with a man being killed?"
"Im just
trying to find some answers," Scully says as she
continues her perusal.
He watches impatiently as she looks up at the porch
rafters. She points up at an area where the wood appears
to be charred. "How about up here?"
Abbott says brusquely, "You know I got a victim in
the morgue mauled beyond recognition from what appears to
be an animal. I havent got anything so far that
says otherwise. No motive, no intent, no sign of a
weapon. There's not one shred of evidence that cries out
for a human explanation, yet you stand there telling me
flat out that what were looking for is a man."
He turns and walks down the steps. He throws a parting
shot over his shoulder. "Thanks for everything,
Agent Scully. We'll take it from here."
The female agent regards his retreating back and calls
after him, "I'm sure your explanation will mollify
all those hotshots down at the county seat, Detective and
relieve any general anxiety about what happened out here.
What explanation will you have if it happens again?"
Abbott does not acknowledge her remark and walks toward
the cluster of vehicles, gesturing to the rest of the
officers.
Scully makes her way
carefully down the porch steps and walks to the bureau
car. She retrieves the field kit from the trunk and walks
back to the house, the noise of the departing vehicles
behind her.
As she nears the steps, Doggett calls from inside the
house, "Agent Scully."
She enters the house and joins Doggett at the foot of the
stairs. He indicates the bottom step. There is a mark
that appears to match the one on the porch. "Is that
a second print?"
Scully reaches into her coat pocket and brings out a pair
of latex gloves. She puts them on and crouches down to
scrutinize the print. "It could be but Im not
sure if it tells us anything."
"Well, maybe there's no prints in the yard because
whatever made these didn't go through the yard...it came
through the house."
Scully nods, acknowledging his reply. "Well, if
anything, Id say this print leads up the
stairs."
They sidestep the print and ascend the creaking stairs.
Doggett leads the way and heads into the main bedroom.
The room is as sparsely furnished as the rest of the
house. Old, worn furniture, handed down through
generations of users, decorates the room. Generic
paintings dot the dingy walls. An old lamp sits atop a
yellowed doily on a four-drawer dresser. Dust motes float
in the air, illuminated by the sunlight through partially
drawn window curtains. The room has the musty smell
indigenous to old houses.
Scully examines both sides of the bedroom door and
finding nothing amiss, crosses to the window. She
carefully pushes aside the thin curtains and notes the
sash is secure and locked.
Doggett is down on his hands and knees, searching
underneath the bed. He peers closely into the dimly lit
space. His voice is muffled. "You know, there is a
more obvious explanation."
"What?"
Rising from his knees, he gives a cursory brush to his
pants. "The more basic answer is what were
dealing with here is simply a man...a psychotic killer
with a deformed foot. You're familiar with the principle
of Occam's Razor?"
Scully nods bemusedly. "Yeah. You take every
possible explanation and you choose the simplest one.
Mulder used to refer to it as "Occam's Principle of
Limited Imagination," she is silent for a brief
second, "Unless you have a simple explanation as to
how a killer with a deformed foot leaves a print only
every 25 feet."
Doggett acknowledges her logic. "No."
"According to the wife, her husband had just come
home. She heard her husband's screams and went downstairs
to investigate. She saw something killing her
husband and yet...she was not attacked. Why not?"
Doggett scrubs a hand across his face, perplexed. "I
don't know. Maybe she scared him off."
"Maybe." Scully opens the door to the small
closet. A row of out-dated dark suits, bordered on one
side by a small selection of faded, paisley-print
housedresses, spans the length of a wooden rod. Boxes of
all shapes and sizes clutter the top shelf. Shoes are
clustered together on the floor.
She spies a small opening in the ceiling, its cover
slightly askew. A piece of frayed rope hangs from the
hole.
"Agent Doggett..." she calls softly.
Doggett joins her in the narrow doorway. He reaches up
and tugs on the rope. A small ladder unfolds.
Scully hands the field kit to Doggett and climbs the
ladder through the opening. She leans back through the
hole and takes the field kit from Doggett, who has
climbed halfway up the ladder. She sets it down and
begins rummaging through it.
Doggett climbs through and warily looks around. He digs
in the pocket of his jacket, finally bringing out a small
6-inch Mag-Lite. He flips it on; its tiny light pierces
the dim room. "You ever carry one of these?" He
waggles the light at Scully.
"No. Never," Scully mutters as she produces a
12-inch Ultra Mag-Lite from the field kit and clicks it
on. The powerful beam slices through the darkness.
Sheepishly, Doggett looks at his tiny flashlight.
"Oh."
The agents move to opposite sides of the small enclosure.
After several minutes of fruitless searching, Scully
spots something on the rafters. She moves closer and
points to the roof. "There. I saw something similar
to that on the porch, too."
Doggett walks over. He peers at the mark illuminated by
her flashlight. "Looks like, to me...I dont
know...like a...a..."
"Scorch mark?" She lifts an inquiring eyebrow.
"From what? Fire damage?" Doggett queries.
"I dont know. Looks pretty localized, just
like out front." Scully sweeps the light slowly
across the ceiling. "I dont see any more
marks." She moves back to the small opening.
Doggett follows and
watches as she puts the flashlight away. "I
dont think were going to find anything else
here," he says.
"I dont
think we are either. Im going to need to get a look
at the body. Maybe you can do some digging down at the
sheriffs office and find out if this victim is the
only one."
************************
Morgue
Wednesday: 7:12 p.m.
The morgue is hushed and chilly. The fluorescent lights
overhead cast blurry reflections on the fronts of the
stainless steel cabinets and drawers. The autopsy table
has its normally gleaming surface dulled by streaky
rivulets of various body fluids that belong to the corpse
adorning it.
Scully drapes a sheet over the body of the undertaker.
Her scrubs show the telltale signs of her efforts to find
any forensic secrets this body may tell her. Snapping off
her latex gloves, she tosses them in the appropriate
container. The mask and protective glasses follow, each
to their appropriate place.
Fatigue is evident in her drawn features. She puts her
hands against the small of her back and stretches, trying
to work the knots out of her spine. A tired sigh escapes
as she stands by the autopsy table, arms akimbo;
shoulders slumped as she stares at the sheet-covered
body.
She straightens her posture as the door swings open and
Agent Doggett enters the room, a sheaf of papers clutched
in his hand. "Youre still here," he
notes.
Scully tiredly indicates the body. "Something's not
adding up."
"Why? What did you find?"
"Nothing that will allay anyone's fears about what
killed this man."
"*What*. You mean
*who* killed him."
"Well, to be honest, some aspects of what I found
here do lean more towards an animal explanation--the
jagged scratches, the lacerations in the flesh. While
these are more consistent with an animal, I can't
definitively state what caused this, primarily, because
of what I didnt find."
Off Doggetts skeptical look, she continues.
"No saliva residue in the tissue. No trace of fur,
which is impossible if you go with the theory of an
animal attack. No fibers of any type. In fact, I can't
find a damned trace of anything."
"Anything else?"
"His skin...what's left of it...is burned...much
like a first-degree burn...redness...absence of blisters,
but there wasnt anything to indicate he had been
anywhere near a heat source. It uniformly covers every
bit of exposed skin but there is no evidence of burns on
his clothing or the skin underneath the clothing. It's
almost as if..."
She gently rubs tired eyes. "It's almost as if this
happened by itself. Its weird."
Another short pause, then determinedly, she pushes ahead.
"It reminds me of a case Mulder and I investigated a
few years ago. An ancient Ecuadorian artifact that held
the remains of a female shaman was unearthed. Those
involved supposedly invoked a curse and were subsequently
devoured by a jaguar spirit."
"I remember reading about that," Doggett
chuffs. "Youre not serious."
Scully raises her hands in resignation. "Vengeful
jaguar spirits aside, at this point, I don't have enough
to make a justifiable determination."
"So...?" Doggett asks guardedly.
"At this point...I don't even want to guess. Which,
I'm sure, will further endear us with local law
enforcement."
Doggett chuckles,
"yeah, you and Detective Abbott really hit it
off."
"Tell me about
it." She makes a concerted effort to tone down her
frustration by taking a deep breath. "So, have you
turned up anything?"
He waves the papers. "Well, maybe. Could be
coincidence though."
A wistful look appears in Scullys eyes.
It goes unnoticed by Doggett as he moves to a nearby
counter and starts laying out the papers like an
oversized game of Solitaire. "I went down to the
sheriff's department and found these reports. They caught
my eye."
Scully plucks the first paper off the counter and scans
it.
Doggett leans in slightly, reading aloud over her
shoulder. "First death..."
Scully looks at him questioningly.
He nods and continues, "About one month ago...one
Andrew Stefaniuk...33 year old white male...second of
three sons...local family...somewhat prosperous,
well-known around here. He was shot in the back of the
head, close range, in what was termed a hunting
accident."
Scully looks surprised. "Back of the head? An
accident?"
"Yeah...hell of an aim...turns out it was his older
brother, Ernie. There wasnt an autopsy or inquest.
The coroner ruled it an accidental death. His name was
George Schaefer."
Scully glances up at Doggett. This bit of news she was
not expecting.
He continues his recital. "None other than our
victim. There was what appears to be a cursory
investigation by the sheriffs department--interview
with Ernie Stefaniuk and thats about it. Your
buddy, Detective Abbott, was the lead investigator."
He picks up the next report and hands it to Scully.
"Heres another suspicious death. Ariel
Stefaniuk, wife of Ernie Stefaniuk. She was fished out of
the river about two weeks ago. Our Mr. Schaefer ruled
death by drowning. Again, no autopsy or inquest, even
though it would appear the body was in pretty bad shape.
They attributed the mutilation to scavenging fish and
submersion in the river for several days. The burn marks
they didn't have an explanation for. Detective Abbott led
the investigation on this one too."
Doggett motions for
Scully to turn the page. "It peaked my interest
because it looks like Ariel Stefaniuks wounds are
similar to George Schaefers."
Scully looks closely at the gruesome photo of Ariel
Stefaniuks body. She shakes her head in disbelief.
"Two closely related victims...both of whom died
violent deaths...literally within weeks of each other and
no one followed up with an investigation. Hard to
believe."
"Detective Abbott didn't seem to think there was
anything to it. He closed both cases. From what Ive
read there wasnt any attempt made to probe into
either case."
"Unfortunately, there seems to be a lot of that
going around," Scully says absently as she continues
to study the report.
Doggett tilts his head questioningly at Scully who turns
and begins to gather the papers from the counter.
"Id hate to think how he would classify George
Schaefers death if we werent here," she
mumbles.
"Yeah,
its odd because I talked briefly with a few
deputies and they said hes a top-notch
investigator. But still, the similarity between Schaefer
and Ariel Stefaniuk...almost jumps out at you."
"I agree the
wounds do seem to share the same characteristics. But I
think we need to talk to George Schaefer's wife first.
Right now, she's the only witness."
"Well, Detective Abbott took her statement. From
what I read in his notes, he thought it was a waste of
time."
"Maybe Detective Abbott didn't ask the right
questions. That would appear to be his mode of
investigation lately." She starts for the door,
turning as she opens it. "Ill get changed and
meet you out front, then well head to the
hospital."
************************
Burley City Hospital
Wednesday: 8:07 p.m.
The nurse points the two agents down the hall. Their
footfalls echo as they stride down the featureless
corridor with its gleaming tiles and sterile white walls.
Upon locating the room, Scully gives a couple of soft
raps on the door to alert its occupant to their presence.
The woman in the bed is swaddled in blankets against the
coolness of the room; a thin, white gauze bandage cuts a
circular swath around her white hair, her face is lined
with wrinkles, the testament to her age. She has the
shrunken appearance that hospitals seem to impart on
their patients. She is aimlessly watching the TV,
flipping the channels. Magazines clutter the bed's tray
table, along with a half-full glass of water and a box of
Kleenex.
She notices the agents and mutes the television.
"Sorry, didn't hear you come in." She waves
toward the television. "Always thought TV was a
waste of time."
Scully approaches the hospital bed, reaches in her jacket
pocket and retrieves her identification. "Mrs.
Schaefer?"
As the woman nods, Scully continues, "My name is
Agent Scully...this is Agent Doggett. We're with the FBI.
We need to ask you a few questions about your
husband."
Mrs. Schaefer sounds confused. "The FBI? But
Ive already talked to the police," she huffs
ruefully, "They think I'm a hysterical, old twit.
That my mind isn't right...that I was in shock from
seeing...they don't believe me," her voice trembles
slightly. "You won't believe me either but you can
go ahead and ask your questions." She half-heartedly
waves toward the bedside chair.
Taking the offered seat, Scully is patient and
conciliatory. "Were sorry for your loss and
know this is very upsetting, but can you tell us what you
saw that night?"
A tiny noise escapes Mrs. Schaefer's throat as a shaking
hand covers her mouth. Taking a steadying breath, she
tries to compose herself.
Nevertheless, her voice trembles slightly as she answers,
"I saw my husband killed right in front of me...who
it was or what it was...well...it...it wasn't anything of
this world."
She raises herself to a sitting position and leans toward
Scully. "I'm a God-fearing woman, Agent Scully, I
believe in the Almighty without a doubt...and what I saw
was straight from hell. It wasn't no man that killed my
George...that thing was the very devil himself."
"What did this devil look like?"
"Well, it was...it was like a cloud...a glowing
cloud...all swirling and dark...and the air on the porch
was ungodly hot...I remember thinking, how could it be so
hot, what with how it's been so cold, never mind it being
the middle of winter, but I remember a blast of hot air,
like there was fire close by, only there wasn't. It was
so hot...when I went out of the house...like a blast
furnace."
"When you say dark, you mean it was dark
outside?"
"No, no. The thing." Mrs. Schaefer
says impatiently. "Its color
it was
dark-colored, like a real dark purple...it wasnt
white like you see with regular clouds...and it...acted
angry."
"It acted angry? How do you mean?"
Scully interrupts abruptly.
"You could feel it...almost like something you could
reach out and touch. I swear it looked like there was the
devil in it. It was angry...and it was attacking
him." She covers her face with her hands. "It
killed him."
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Schaefer, can you go on or do you
need a few minutes?"
Mrs. Schaefer drops her hands, tears shimmering in her
eyes and gives Scully a tremulous smile. "I'll be
alright. I just still can't believe it really happened.
Maybe I am just a foolish, old woman."
"Please, go on," Scully gently prompts.
"Thats all I saw and that's all I know, cause
then I fainted and next thing I know, Im here...and
George is dead," she says sadly, clutching at a
Kleenex.
She blows her nose loudly, then wads the tissue and
tosses it to the small table where it rolls and comes to
rest against the glass.
She plucks a fresh tissue from the box as her eyes meet
Scully's and she states resolutely, "I don't want to
believe it, but I know what I saw. I don't care what that
big-mouth from the sheriff says."
"And who would that be?"
Mrs. Schaefer spits out her answer. "Detective
Abbott. After I talked to him, he came right out and said
he didn't believe me...that I was probably mistaken with
what I saw...'I was overwrought,' he said. He didn't like
it one bit when I told him that I wasn't overwrought and
that I was sure about what I saw." She clasps her
hands decisively in her lap.
Nodding, Scully purses her lips thoughtfully. "Mrs.
Schaefer, did your husband ever discuss his work with
you?"
"Not really. Just comments now and again. It's not
the kind of thing you talk about over supper, you
know." A small, rueful smile tugs at the corner of
the womans mouth.
Scully encourages Mrs. Schaefer to elaborate. "Your
husband was the coroner as well as the undertaker?"
"Yes, we're just a little county. George did both
jobs...has for a lot of years. Too many years he said
just last week."
She thoughtfully considers, and shakes a finger at Scully
for emphasis. "You know, come to think of it...there
was something that's been going on...with George, I mean.
He seemed nervous...kind of out of sorts...you know,
upset...like something wasnt sitting right with
him...and that just wasn't George. Mostly he was just
easy-going...able to get along with everybody. But
lately, he just wasn't himself."
"What do you think was wrong?" Scully urges.
She is hesitant as she searches her memory. "Don't
know exactly...he never said...he just mentioned more
than once that maybe he was getting too old to do the
job...had too many years in...he was tired of the
politics...that kind of thing."
"But he never came out and indicated what was wrong.
What might have been disturbing him?" Scully
persists.
"No, he never said."
"And how long would you say he had been acting out
of character?"
The old woman ponders her answer for a brief second, and
then decisively replies, "a few weeks, maybe a
month, he'd been acting all squirrelly but we didnt
talk about it. He never liked anyone to push him. Now, I
wish Id made him tell me." Her eyes fill with
tears. "You just always think therell be time
later. I didnt think about the day where I would
give anything just to hear his voice again." She
drops her head in sorrow, swiping at her nose with the
Kleenex.
The old womans statement rocks Scully momentarily
as it reminds her of her own loss. In order to hide her
emotions she lowers her head, as if thinking of her next
question.
Surreptitiously, she
takes a calming breath and regains her composure. "I
have just a few more questions, Mrs. Schaefer. On the
night of your husbands death, was your porch light
working?"
The woman pauses in
mid-sniffle. "Yes, Im sure it was."
"You sound very
certain."
"I am. I always
turned it on for him whenever he would be late coming
home. I turned it on that night. If it had been out,
George wouldve said something," her voice is
bittersweet, "He wouldnt have changed it, mind
you, but he wouldve said something."
"I realize you
may think this is a strange question, but when your
husband shoveled snow, did he only clear the porch?"
A short, scratchy
laugh comes from the woman. "George didnt
shovel snow. We had a young boy that lives down the road
do it for us whenever it was needed. But he hasnt
done it lately. Hes probably got better things to
do than shovel snow on his Christmas vacation."
"I see.
Thats all the questions I have." She looks
over to Doggett standing silently near the door.
"Agent Doggett?"
Doggett says
quietly, "I think youve covered
everything."
Scully rises from
her chair. "Thank you for your time. Youve
been very helpful."
Mrs. Schaefer nods
tearfully as she watches the two agents leave.
************************
The agents exit the room and walk down the hall in
silence. A short distance from Mrs. Schaefer's room,
Doggett stops.
Scully notices his action and turns to face him.
"What?"
"You believe her?" he asks tentatively.
"You mean, what she says killed her husband?"
"Yeah, that business about a purple cloud."
Scully briefly ponders his question. She says carefully,
"I believe she saw something that night. Given
everything that doesnt add up in this case, I can't
disregard what she is saying."
Doggett starts to reply but stops when he sees
Scullys attention is captured by something behind
him. He turns and sees Detective Abbott striding angrily
toward them, his freckled face mottled with anger. He
bypasses Doggett and stops in front of Scully, who meets
his angry stare head-on.
The faint sunlight streaming through the window at the
end of the hall silhouettes Abbott's form and gives him a
dark, menacing appearance.
"What in the hell are you doing, lady?" Abbott
gestures angrily toward the old womans room.
"I've already taken her statement. She didn't have
anything to contribute to this case."
Hands on her hips, Scully shoots back her reply.
"The name is Special Agent Scully, and I beg to
differ, Detective. She saw her husband killed. She's a
witness."
"She was in shock. She doesn't know what she
saw."
"Mrs. Schaefer is understandably upset by the death
of her husband...but it doesn't seem to be something she
would make up under duress. She seemed to be very certain
of what she saw. I'm not going to disregard what she told
me, and with the bizarre nature of this case so far, I
would think that every angle would be investigated.
Certainly not summarily disregarded just because it
doesn't fit in with your view."
Abbott glares at Scully.
Unflinching, she matches his stare. "What about
Ariel Stefaniuk, Detective?" she asks evenly.
The detective sputters, his face turning a darker shade
of red. "What!!?"
Scully continues calmly, "Ariel Stefaniuk. I
understand she was killed a few weeks ago. Her body was
burned and mutilated."
He glowers at her. "Just what are you saying?"
"I'm saying there may be a connection between the
two victims."
"How do you figure that?" Abbott barks.
Stubbornly, Scully forges ahead. "I cant say
for certain. But I need to examine Ariels
body."
"Honest to god, you just jump at whatever
explanation is the wildest and most far-fetched, don't
you?"
"Well, I suggest you jump at it too, because there
are too many similarities between George Schaefer and
Ariel Stefaniuk to disregard the possibility of a
connection," Scully is openly belligerent, "Why
are you so willing to ignore this?"
Abbott sneers, "So...what...now you're trying to say
Ariel Stefaniuk was killed the same way George Schaefer
was?"
Scullys eyes flash with anger. She is tired of
Abbotts overbearing attitude. "All Im
saying is with the bizarre nature of this case so far,
every possibility needs to be explored. Her body needs to
be exhumed for examination so a possible connection can
either be substantiated or eliminated."
"Exhumed! Why..." Abbott's rant is cut off when
Doggett suddenly steps between them.
He holds up a hand
in a non-threatening gesture. "Is there a problem
with what Agent Scully is saying? I agree with her.
Theres too much that doesnt add up. Id
think youd want some answers," Doggetts
tone is reasonable but the hard stare he gives Abbott
doesnt invite further discussion, "I know I
want some answers. How about it?"
A palpable tension
hovers between the detective and the two agents. The big
detective huffs angrily as he turns without a word and
walks away.
Doggett faces
Scully. He raises his hands in a what can you
do gesture. "Sorry if I stepped on your toes
just now. I just got tired of listening to his
mouth."
Scully smiles
slightly. "No, its okay. Thanks for stepping
in."
Doggett shrugs.
"Not a problem. Where to now?"
She purses her lips
thoughtfully before answering, "Im going to go
back to the morgue...see if theres anything I might
have missed."
Doggett shifts
uncomfortably. "Yeah. Okay. Uh...if you dont
mind, Im going to head back over to the
sheriffs office and nose around some more."
************************
Cassia County Cemetery
Wednesday: 10:37 p.m.
Scattered clouds drift lazily overhead. Nestled far from
roads or farmhouses, the county cemetery is lonesome and
isolated. Gravestones stand like silent sentinels, their
varied shapes and forms monuments to the eternal sleep of
the inhabitants.
The raucous engine of a backhoe suddenly shatters the
tranquil setting. The metal mouth methodically scoops up
great gulps of dirt as it steadily peels away the layers
of Ariel Stefaniuk's grave. It makes quick work of the
excavation.
Careful placement of sturdy ropes, the steadily
increasing growl of the engine signifies the massive
vault cover being hauled to the surface. It is laid to
rest beside the mound of dirt and the ropes are loosened.
The worker climbs down into the opened grave and fastens
them around the exposed coffin. He scrambles up and the
machine roars as it brings its cargo to the surface. It
trundles the coffin over to a flatbed truck parked
nearby.
Headlights cast a harsh light briefly upon the site as a
car pulls up a short distance away. Detective Abbott
exits his vehicle, leaving the engine running and lights
on.
He lights a cigarette as he approaches the two men and
nods a greeting. "You guys sure work fast. I didn't
think you'd get finished this quick."
The older of the two men draws a dirty bandana out of his
back pocket and swipes it over his sweaty face. "I
don't know of anybody who wants to hang around here after
dark, unless they're up to no good. Ive been doing
this longer than I care to say...and I still don't like
being out here after the sun goes down."
"Appreciate you guys getting this done right
away."
"Whats the big rush anyway? Couldn't it wait
till morning?" The old man queries as he glances
around uneasily.
Abbott takes a deep drag from his cigarette and exhales
sharply. "Some hotshot broad from the FBI throwing
her weight around. Says it needed done tonight. Like that
body's going to go somewhere between tonight and
tomorrow...or get any deader."
The young gravedigger chuckles softly.
The old man shushes him. "Show some respect. You
want someone cracking wise in your resting place?"
The young man smirks, "Like I'm gonna know? When I'm
dead, I'm dead...I ain't gonna know no difference."
"Hush...you don't know for certain." The old
man is nervous. "We're finished here. Give us a call
when youre done."
He hurries to the truck. His assistant follows, amused at
his partner's show of nerves.
Abbott calls after them, "I'll call you tomorrow,
soon as Miss Fancy Pants is done."
The truck rumbles away leaving Abbott standing near the
open grave. He takes another puff as he watches the red
taillights grow smaller. Silence settles like a blanket
except for an intermittent pop from the backhoe's cooling
engine.
Abbott finishes his cigarette and grinds it under his
heel. He starts walking toward his car, his footsteps
muffled against the snow. The air suddenly turns still
and heavy. A primal instinct causes the hair on the
detective's neck to prickle as he senses a presence. He
stops and turns slowly. Nervously, he scans the cemetery.
The outer fringe of the car's headlights turns the rows
of headstones into shapeless blurs. If he stares hard
enough, they appear to be moving. Shaking his head at his
foolishness, he resumes his journey to his car.
A violent blast of hot air at his back causes him to
stumble. Recovering his balance, he turns and is startled
by the shimmering apparition pulsing in front of him. The
blurry wraith hovers for a brief second, emanating heat
like a miniature sun as its malevolence increases. Abbott
stumbles backwards as he tries to escape.
The specter is upon him in an instant.
The headlights on the car shatter, plunging the cemetery
into total darkness except for the iridescent phantom and
the sound of Abbotts screams echoing through the
darkness.
************************
Morgue
Thursday: 12:08 a.m.
Scully sits perched on the stool, her sneaker-clad feet
hooked over the rungs. One hand props up her head as she
transcribes her notes on her initial examination of Ariel
Stefaniuk. She pauses to gently rub at her weary eyes. It
has been a long day and doesn't show any sign of ending
soon.
She grimaces and
tries to relieve the tight muscles in her neck by moving
her head from side to side. She refocuses on the papers
in front of her.
Her train of thought is derailed as the door opens. She
experiences a sense of dj vu as Agent Doggett appears
in the doorway. He steps to the side as a sheet-covered
body is wheeled into the room.
Doggett kicks the doorstop down to keep the door open and
silently mouths, 'Abbott.'
Scully arches an eyebrow but doesnt respond.
A deputy appears in the doorway and motions to Doggett.
"I want a word with you."
Doggett glances at Scully before he follows the deputy
into the hall.
Angrily, the officer gestures toward the room.
"Look, we listened to you. The detective listened to
you. We could have been out hunting this thing down,
Agent Doggett."
"You should be doing that now." Doggett states
calmly.
"Now? Now's too late for the detective, isn't it?
Look, we don't need you or your partner telling us what
to do. She's the one responsible for this."
"Nobody's responsible for this except for whoever
did it." Doggett reasonably argues.
The deputys tirade continues. "Look, I don't
care who she is or what she is, she's not touching that
body. We don't need her or her far-out theories. She's
not welcome here."
The deputy abruptly turns and walks away.
Doggett rejoins Scully in the room, closing the door
behind him. "What happened to the lynch mob?"
she asks.
"You hear all that?"
"I heard enough."
Doggett motions toward Abbott's body draped with a
bloodstained sheet. "Things have taken a little
turn."
Scully disagrees. "I dont think so."
"Did you find something?"
Scully walks to the other body in the room and pulls back
the sheet partway, revealing the scorched, mutilated
remains of a woman. "This is Ariel Stefaniuk. The
body Detective Abbott exhumed."
Doggett doesn't bother to conceal his distaste.
"Look familiar?" Scully queries.
Off his non-answer, she continues, "Her wounds are
the same. The manner of death is the same. The same lack
of forensic evidence...no hairs, fibers or saliva. I have
a feeling when I examine the detective's remains I'm
going to find the same thing. Somehow, these victims are
all connected."
"Agent Scully..." Doggett begins but Scully
cuts him off.
"Youve
got Andrew Stefaniuk killed by his brother Ernie in what
is arguably a hunting accident. Schaefer signs off on the
case with a highly questionable cause of death and Abbott
accepts the findings without a thorough investigation.
Ariel Stefaniuk, wife of Ernie Stefaniuk, is violently
killed a couple of weeks later. Again, no autopsy, no
investigation." She ticks off each victim on her
fingers. "Then George Schaefer, the coroner of
record for Andrew Stefaniuk and Ariel Stefaniuk, is
killed in the same manner as Mrs. Stefaniuk. No forensic
evidence on Schaefers body and Abbott was ready to
close the case with an animal attack for the cause of
death."
Scully pauses in her
narrative and walks back to the large body draped with a
bloodstained sheet. She uncovers the body of the big
detective. The wounds are clearly the same as those on
Mrs. Stefaniuk and Schaefer.
She gestures toward
the body. "Now youve got the investigator for
both Andrew and Ariel Stefaniuk and George Schaefer. Do
you sense a pattern here?"
"So, youre saying it all goes back to Andrew
Stefaniuks death?"
"I think Andrew Stefaniuk was murdered by his
brother Ernie...and that for whatever
reasons...partisanship, family money, ineptitude,
whatever, Schaefer and Abbott failed to do their jobs
properly. And I also found something else very
interesting. In the first case report, verified by his
medical records," Scully moves to the counter and
picks up a folder. "Andrew Stefaniuk was born with a
very interesting birth defect. He only had four toes on
his left foot."
"You're not saying...wait a minute, Agent
Scully...are you asking me to believe Andrew Stefaniuk is
responsible for these killings?" He crosses his
arms. "You think its some sort of vengeance
from beyond the grave?" Doubt laces Doggetts
words.
Scully measures her response carefully. "I
cant find any scientific explanation for the
condition of these bodies. Logically, its not
possible and if it cant be explained
scientifically, then a paranormal angle has to be
considered. I think were looking at a manifestation
of kinetic energy being used on everyone connected to the
death of Andrew Stefaniuk."
Doggett rubs the back of his neck. He is struggling with
Scullys theory. "I dont know. Im
having a hard time buying what youre selling.
Ill admit theres a connection between Ariel
Stefaniuk and George Schaefer but I cant quite
believe Andrew Stefaniuks ghost or whatever you
want to call it, is causing this."
"We can debate the finer points on our way out to
the Stefaniuk residence. The time between victims seems
to be accelerating; Ariel's death was a couple of weeks
ago, Schaefer and Abbott, not even twenty-four hours
between them." As Scully speaks, she covers the
gruesome bodies. She moves to the counter and begins to
gather all the paperwork.
She hands the
folders to Doggett. "Myron and Ernie Stefaniuk are
the only surviving relatives. Either one could be the
next victim."
************************
Slade River
Thursday: 12:57 a.m.
The river carves a dark ribbon through the countryside.
The gentle current laps softly at the ice-encrusted
deadwood interspersed along its length.
A propane lantern casts a bright circle of illumination
on the young man kneeling on the bank, pulling a rope
methodically toward him.
The rope is wrapped around a large pulley that loops
endlessly in a large circle out across the river to a
long, narrow island. His motions are slow and unhurried.
After a few minutes of steady pulling, he leans down and
grounds a large raft. It bobs gently beside a small,
two-seat boat equipped with a tiny trolling motor.
He turns when he hears a car approach. Headlights create
a false daylight as the glow appears on the horizon and
finally crawls over the small levee washing him in their
brilliance.
The man tenses as the vehicle slowly approaches,
shielding his eyes as he squints to see the occupants.
The car comes to a halt a short distance from him and the
two agents get out.
As they approach, Doggett calls out, "Mr.
Stefaniuk?"
He looks at them warily. "Yeah?"
"Are you Myron or Ernie Stefaniuk?"
"I'm Myron." He is a tall, gangly-looking man
clad in worn insulated overalls. A sweat-stained ball cap
is perched on his head. Dirty blond hair peeks out in
unruly tufts. He is in his late twenties but mannerisms
and speech indicate his mental prowess lags behind his
years. He becomes nervous when he sees Doggett's hand on
his gun.
Scully gives a relieved sigh. "You gave us a bit of
a scare. We went to your home up the road and we couldn't
find you."
Stefaniuk is curious. "Why would you be
scared?"
"Well, sir, we work with the FBI," Doggett says
carefully, "We have reason to believe that your life
may be in danger."
"I'm in danger?" Stefaniuk's voice trembles
slightly.
"Well, we're conducting an investigation, sir, that
we believe may be connected to the shooting death of your
brother Andrew."
"What about it? Whats that got to do with
me?" Stefaniuk looks confused.
"It may just be your connection to Ernie."
Scully makes an attempt at clarification.
"My brother? But I wasn't even there when...when the
accident happened," Stefaniuk replies, his voice is
high-pitched. "You're crazy. I don't know nothing
about it. Just leave me alone."
He shuffles away quickly and heads toward a battered
pickup parked on the side of the dirt road. The engine
turns over with a wheeze and the rear wheels spin as
Stefaniuk guns the old truck up the road. The taillights
disappear over the small hill.
Scully looks at
Doggett. "Well...that reaction was a little
extreme."
Doggett chuffs, "No kidding. Let's see if we can
find out why."
*********************
Stefaniuk Residence
Thursday: 5:28 a.m.
The agents' rental car, its bulk one more shadow in the
darkness, sits a short distance from the house.
Scully is watching the house with binoculars. She watches
Myron Stefaniuk leave the house and cross the yard to a
weather-beaten barn. He pulls open the large sliding door
and goes inside.
She lowers the
binoculars. "You think he could leave out the
back?"
Doggett yawns. "Nah, we'd hear that old heap he
drives."
Scully stretches a little trying to alleviate the
discomfort that comes from sitting in a car for a long
period of time. "You know, we've been out here for
hours. We haven't seen or heard anything." She props
an elbow on the car door and rests her head against her
hand.
After a few moments of silence she continues, "Maybe
I'm wrong." Doubt laces her voice. "Maybe this
is all just a...a grand coincidence and we're wasting our
time out here." She waves a hand dismissively.
Doggett glances over. "You rethinking the ghost
thing? You were so sure before."
"Yeah, I was sure of the facts as I had deduced
them," Scully's voice is bleak, "Maybe
I'm...I'm trying to force them into shape. Maybe I'm
manufacturing a theory or Im just trying too
hard."
"To do what? Carry on Mulders work?" He
quietly asks.
She wills herself not to show a reaction as she gazes out
the window. After a long moment she answers, "I have
to try. It cant end this way."
She looks over at
Doggett. Her face is unreadable in the dark as she says,
"Mulders case is now inactive. Kersh informed
Skinner and me yesterday morning. I was specifically
ordered not to pursue it any further."
Doggett carefully
asks, "Was he wasting his breath?"
Scully doesnt
answer. She looks down and toys with the strap on the
binoculars.
Doggett turns
slightly in his seat. "Kersh will bounce you right
out of the Bureau. Take it from me, that guy is a
hard-ass."
Scully nods in
agreement. "I know he wouldnt hesitate for an
instant but Ill have to take that chance. Im
too close to stop now. Too close to finding the
truth."
"And then
what?"
"Then Ill
bring those responsible to justice." She twists the
strap around her hand, pulling it tight. "One way or
the other."
Doggett says
earnestly, "Look, Agent Scully, dont lose
yourself in this. If you feel youre getting too
close to the edge, step back. I know; Ive been
there. Youve got too much at stake, too much to
lose. Dont be afraid to walk away before its
too late."
She replies in a
firm voice, "Walking away is not an option. Not now.
Too much has been lost. It has to end."
The resolve in her
voice signals that the discussion is over. She unwinds
the strap from her hand and raises the binoculars and
resumes her surveillance.
************************
A short time later, the old pickup wheezes to life, exits
the barn and rumbles down the narrow road toward the
river. Doggett and Scully follow in their vehicle,
headlights off, the car's engine noise masked by the
racket of the old truck.
Doggett stops the car on the opposite side of the small
hill and the two agents move quickly down toward the
river.
Their presence is undetected as Stefaniuk parks his truck
close to the raft he had grounded earlier. He gets out
and walks around to the back of the truck, lowering the
tailgate.
Doggett's voice startles him. "You must not get much
sleep at night, Mr. Stefaniuk."
"What...what do you mean? What do you want? I told
you I don't know nothing."
Scully takes out a flashlight and shines it over the
contents in the bed of the truck. "What's so
important in here it has to be moved before morning?
Where is this stuff going?"
Doggett glances where her light is shining. "Looks
to me to be supplies. Who're these for, Mr.
Stefaniuk?"
Scully picks up the thread of questioning. "Where is
your brother, Mr. Stefaniuk? Where is Ernie?"
Despite the chill weather, a light sheen of sweat appears
on Myron's brow. "I don't...I...what do you want
with him? What do you want from me?"
Scully urges, "We want to know the truth. We want to
know why everyone connected with Andrew's death is being
killed. Why is that, Mr. Stefaniuk? What really happened
that day?"
Stefaniuk is unnerved. "I don't know...I wasn't even
there...they said...Ernie said it was an
accident..."
"You know where Ernie is, don't you? That's what all
this is for." She waves a hand at the cargo of
supplies. "We need to know where he is."
Scully's voice is sharp.
Stefaniuk bows his head, shaking it remorsefully. The
words tumble from his mouth. "Ernie and Andy used to
argue all the time. They did growing up as kids...you
know, kid stuff. Then, when Mom and Pop died, Ernie
turned hateful...real hateful to Andy. Ernie kept saying
the farm should have been his alone...cause he was the
oldest. But it was put down we was to work it
together...to share. That made Ernie mad...he said that
it should have been just his. And then Ernie and Andy
just kept getting worse, always fighting and stuff.
"Then one day, they go hunting...just like they did
every year since they was both kids. I never got to go
cause Mom said it wasn't safe for me to use a gun...see,
I'm not the smartest, never was...anyway, they both went
and only Ernie came back. He said it was an accident...an
accident...and it must've been...cause nobody never said
it wasn't."
Doggett interrupts, "Did anyone ever say they
thought Ernie was lying?"
"I don't know, nobody never said...I never asked.
All I knew was Andy was dead. Ernie said if I just minded
my own business I could stay here and help him. I didn't
have nowhere else to go...Mom and Pop were gone, Andy was
gone...I couldn't do nothing else...so I did what he
said.
"Then when...when Ariel was killed...she was real
mean and nasty...she put bad ideas into his head.
Anyways, Ernie got scared. He talked to the police when
she got killed. Then he got really scared, said he had to
hide for a while. He told me not to tell."
Myron has his hands in the pockets of his coveralls,
softly scuffing his boots in the dirt. He hangs his head.
"I only did what he asked me to..."
Scully inclines her head to get Myron to look at her.
"Where is Ernie, Myron? We need to know. His life
could be in danger."
Myron's eyes swim with tears as he looks at Scully and
nods his head slowly.
************************
Stefaniuk's Island
Thursday: 5:50 a.m.
The small boat laboriously makes its way across the
river, its tiny trolling motor humming softly. Doggett
steers the boat onto the edge of the island. Mindful of
the unfamiliarity of the terrain, Scully steps out of the
boat. After advancing a few paces, she drops to a crouch,
her senses on the alert. Drawing her weapon, she waits
while Doggett secures the boat.
She keeps glancing around her, feeling exposed and
vulnerable, as she waits for Doggett. After long,
interminable minutes she hears Doggett as he carefully
makes his way over to her, his footsteps crunching in the
snow. Doggett crouches beside her, his own weapon drawn.
Scully points to a path of trampled snow. Doggett nods
and Scully takes the lead and begins to walk along the
beaten trail.
A short distance from the river, the trail ends in a
small clearing. The intermittent moonlight reflecting off
the snow-covered ground provides a measure of
illumination and the shadowy hulk of a ramshackle
one-room cabin resting on short stilts becomes visible. A
narrow wooden staircase leads up to the door. The windows
are dark with tattered curtains drawn. An outhouse sits
at the edge of the clearing, its door hanging crookedly
ajar.
A squeak of rusty hinges draws their attention to the top
of the stairs. They watch as a man in his late 40's
emerges through the doorway and begins to make his way
down the shaky staircase. He scratches at shaggy salt and
pepper hair as his mouth opens in a wide yawn. Upon
reaching the bottom of the stairs, he turns and slowly
scuffs toward the outhouse.
"Ernie Stefaniuk. FBI. We want to ask you a few
questions." Doggett's authoritative voice rings out.
Stefaniuk gasps and whirls around, hand descending toward
his waistband. Scully and Doggett raise their weapons,
quickly assuming a defensive posture as Doggett yells,
"Freeze! Show me your hands!"
Stefaniuk stops and slowly raises his hands, palms out.
He licks his lips nervously as the two agents rise and
slowly approach.
Ernie squints in the darkness. "FBI? What do you
want with me?"
Scully captures his attention as Doggett moves forward
slowly. "We're conducting an investigation into a
recent death, sir. We need to ask you a few
questions."
Doggett retrieves the pistol tucked in Stefaniuk's belt.
He puts it into the pocket of his overcoat as he backs up
several paces.
"Can't I go to the bathroom first? That's where I
was headed, you know." Stefaniuk motions toward the
dilapidated facility.
Doggett waves him over and halts Stefaniuk short of the
door. He takes out his flashlight and gives a quick
cursory inspection to the dank interior, his nose
crinkling at the smell that wafts from the small
enclosure.
Scully follows both men, stopping a few feet behind
Ernie. She watches him carefully for any sudden
movements.
Doggett steps back to allow Stefaniuk to enter the small
hut to tend to his business.
As Stefaniuk relieves himself, Doggett walks over to
stand beside Scully, who remarks quietly, "He's a
little jumpy, don't you think?"
"Just slightly," Doggett says, as the forceful
sound of Stefaniuk's evacuation continues unabated,
"Don't guess that he comes out much at night
either."
"Must not," Scully says absently as she glances
around suddenly.
"What?" Doggett asks as he looks in the same
direction.
"Nothing," she says dismissively. "Just
got a feeling that something..." She shrugs as if
warding off a chill. "Nothing."
She nods her head toward the outhouse. "We should
take him back across the river to the farm. I don't want
to question him here. No telling how he might
react."
"Okay by me. Place gives me the creeps anyway."
Stefaniuk finally exits, wiping his hands on his pants.
A slight grimace crosses Scully's face as she reaches for
her handcuffs. "Please turn around, Mr. Stefaniuk,
we need to cuff you for your protection and for
ours."
Stefaniuk looks for an instant as if he wants to argue
the point but reconsiders, turning his back to Scully.
"Hands behind your back and interlace your fingers,
please."
Stefaniuk complies and Scully holsters her weapon. She
grasps his entwined fingers with one hand and quickly
snaps the cuffs into place.
"Let's go, Mr. Stefaniuk." Doggett takes him by
the arm.
"Where to?"
"Back to the farm. We're going to get a hot cup of
coffee and you're going to answer some questions for
us."
"Dont know why. I ain't done nothin,"
Stefaniuk mumbles.
Scully leads the way toward the path. "That's what
we're going to try to ascertain, sir."
"Huh?"
Scully takes his arm and steers him toward the path as
they head back toward the river.
************************
Slade River
Thursday: 6:15 a.m.
The journey back to the riverbank takes less time than
the previous trip. The darkness is gradually fading and
makes the trek a little easier.
They arrive at the river's edge and Scully directs
Stefaniuk to sit on the downed tree.
Keeping him in her peripheral vision, she joins Doggett
at the boat. She indicates it with a tilt of her chin.
"We cant all fit in here."
"No kidding. Well, you and Ernie go first, Agent
Scully. Send Myron back with the boat." Doggett
looks at Ernie Stefaniuk briefly. "Just watch
yourself," he admonishes in a low voice.
Scully nods in acknowledgement and motions Stefaniuk over
to the boat.
Doggett steadies it as Scully gets in first to sit at the
rear. He gives a helping hand to Stefaniuk so the cuffed
man doesn't fall over the side.
Scully flicks the switch and the motor purrs to life. She
turns the boat toward the distant shore. The craft slowly
plows its way through the dark water that laps perilously
close to the gunwales of the boat. The misty shoreline
becomes clearer as they draw closer.
Finally, Scully noses the boat into the bank. Stefaniuk
awkwardly clambers out and watches sullenly as Scully
disembarks. As she is tying the anchor rope to the
beached raft, she notices Myron is missing, along with
the rattletrap pickup.
"Damn," She mutters as she takes Stefaniuk by
the arm to usher him to where the car is parked.
As they begin to walk the short distance to the vehicle,
Scully notices the utter silence. The air becomes heavy
and oppressive. The fine hairs on the back of her neck
stand up.
Stefaniuk too, is unsettled. He starts to pull away from
her.
She gives a sharp yank on his arm to stop his movement.
Stefaniuk's face turns ghostly white, his eyes wide,
focusing on something behind her.
Scully turns to see what has captured his attention. She
is astonished at the sight of a glowing violet cloud
rolling across the water.
Stefaniuk pulls his arm from her grasp and stumbles
backwards.
Scully makes a grab for him and misses, her attention
divided between Stefaniuk's attempted retreat and the
unnatural phenomenon approaching. She starts to draw her
weapon, but stops when she realizes bullets will not stop
this assailant.
Stefaniuk bolts, stark fear turned into hysteria. He
steps into a pothole concealed by the snow and falls
face-first, sprawling on the ground.
Scully jogs over to him and reaches down to help him up.
Stefaniuk's frantic movements to escape pull her
off-balance and she goes down on one knee. A strangled
scream escapes his throat.
Scully turns and swallows a scream of her own. The cloud
is almost upon them.
She stands and positions herself between Stefaniuk and
the entity.
Inexplicably, it slows, and comes to a complete stop. It
hovers in mid-air as if assessing the obstacle before it.
"What the hell?" Scully whispers, "Oh my
God." She is awestruck as the cloud shifts its
vapory layers and slowly morphs into the wavering image
of a man.
Ernie gives a startled yelp as the facial features come
into shimmering view. The eyes are deep, black sockets;
sunken cheekbones ring a mouth etched in eternal anger.
Ernie Stefaniuk emits a blood-curdling scream. "Oh
no...no...Andy...god, no...I'm sorry..."
Prone on the ground, Ernie slowly curls into a fetal
position, whimpering and moaning, eyes tightly closed,
the words of remorse and regret tumble haphazardly from
his lips, "I'm sorry...sorry...sorry..."
Scully thinks if she could afford the distraction, she
would slap Ernie into silence but she is stunned into
immobility at the breath-taking spectacle before her. A
blast of hot air washes over her as she watches the
apparition darken to a deep purple, its anger a palpable
presence. It becomes a maelstrom of motion, gathering for
its assault.
Suddenly, Scully whirls, grabs Ernie's shirt and shakes
him roughly. "What did you do to Andy? Tell me what
you did!"
Ernie opens his bloodshot, tear-filled eyes. He looks at
the swirling violet spectacle and sobs loudly, "I
killed him! I killed Andy! Oh god...I killed him."
The last of his words trail off to a trembling whisper.
Scully releases his shirt and lets him fall back to the
ground, a boneless heap.
She stands and turns to face the roiling mass of colors.
The dark purple phantom shimmers, glows vibrantly for a
brief second and begins to fade, dissolving into a
feathery mist that dissipates in the air.
Scully draws a steadying breath and looks
expressionlessly at the huddled, whimpering form of Ernie
Stefaniuk. She silently helps him to his feet and leads
him to the car, securing him in the back seat.
She leans tiredly against the trunk, takes out her cell
phone and relays a short message to the operator and
requests assistance from the state police.
************************
Journal of Dana Scully
On an emotional level I find that I fully empathize
with the entity's desire for justice. The similarity of
the goal is not lost on me. My need is becoming just as
intense. The anger and pain caused by your loss has been
fueled by the willful, deliberate dismissal of your case
by Kersh.
I will not delude
myself with the notion that resolution will come swiftly
but like the entitys patient elimination of those
who grievously wronged him until the sin of his death was
known, I will pursue and methodically find those who hide
in the shadows of deception.
And like the
entity, once I have found the truth, I know I must make a
choice of what to do with it. Will I be satisfied to
simply let justice be served or will I extract my own
bloody vengeance? I am afraid...
************************
X-Files Office
Thursday: 8:12 p.m.
"I was hoping I wouldn't find you here."
Skinner is standing in the doorway.
Scully looks up from her laptop. She taps a few keys and
furtively closes the cover.
Skinner walks into the office and closes the door. His
expression reflects his concern. "You look
exhausted. Why aren't you at home?"
"I'm fine." She retrieves her briefcase and
puts the laptop inside. "I had a few things to
finish."
"I was under the impression you finished your field
report on the Idaho case, or is that a revision you were
working on?"
"No. I mean, yes, the report is finished. I sent it
to your office," she says absently, as she puts her
files into the briefcase.
"I know, I read your report. Tell me, do you
honestly believe in revenge from beyond the grave?"
"As I stated, in this instance, I can't prove nor
disprove it. I know what I saw."
"But do you believe that someone who wants
justice...wants it so badly, they wouldn't let anything,
even their own death, stand in the way?" he asks.
Scully stops her packing and faces Skinner. "Are you
speaking to me or to the case?"
"I mean, how far would someone be willing to
go?" He waves impatiently at the briefcase.
"How far are you willing to go? At what point
will you step back?"
"I believe we've had this conversation, sir,"
she says flippantly.
Skinner swiftly advances until he is just inches from
her. He leans toward Scully, his voice a harsh whisper,
"Yes, and we'll continue to have it until you
understand I will not allow you to put yourself or others
in harm's way."
Scully's whisper matches Skinner's, "And you
need to understand, I will not back off and I will
not stop. I am going to find the truth, no
matter what obstacles are put in my way. I will do whatever
it takes."
"Then I'm telling you again, you need to know where
to draw the line and if you aren't able to make that
determination, I'll be forced to do it for you,
Scully."
"The line was drawn the day I buried Mulder,"
she whispers venomously.
Skinner picks up the nameplate and brandishes it.
"What about how far Mulder would want you to
go?"
Scully takes the nameplate from Skinner and places it in
the briefcase. She picks it up and walks to the door. She
opens it and pauses in the doorway, turning to look back
at Skinner. Her face is drawn and tired, but her gaze is
sharp and unwavering.
Skinner sees a
glimpse of something flash in her eyes as her monotone
answer sends a chill down his spine.
"I'll never be
able to ask him."
***********************
The End
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