BADLAA Dahar International Airport Bombay, India December 29th, 2000 The expression on Hugh Potocki's face is one of annoyance and impatience. "Man, I just want to get the hell out of here," he mutters as he navigates his sizable body as best he can through the busy airport, crowded not only with travelers and baggage handlers, but beggars as well. Dozens of them line the walkway, their empty hands held out, eager to relieve weary Western businessmen of their leftover rupees. As Potocki lumbers through the terminal, one of the beggars catches his eye. At least, he appears to be a beggar, though he is standing away from the others, silent and completely still. His face is that of a middle-aged man, and it is marked with a long, raised scar, stretching from one ear to the corner of his mouth. His body, however, is small and slight, like that of a boy on the verge of adolescence. Potocki glances away for a moment, then looks back. The small Indian's gaze is still locked on the large American; his eyes are noticeably wide, practically bulging from his head. Potocki is used to being looked at twice because of his size, but he still takes offense at being stared at. He furrows his brow at the man, then looks ahead. However, he cannot shake a burgeoning sense of dread, and he glances over his shoulder once more. The Indian has remained motionless, except for his eyes, which are clearly focused on Potocki. Suddenly, the small man starts to move. To follow. Potocki has already begun to sweat from the exertion of walking the terminal, and his expression has shifted from irritation to uneasiness and suspicion. He quickens his pace -- as much as he can -- as he nears the gate for his flight. When he reaches the line at the counter and checks behind him one more time, the small man has disappeared. Potocki begins to breathe a sigh of relief, but only until he turns back around and notices, for the first time, a security guard standing at the gate, inspecting the boarding passengers' carry-on bags. He freezes for one long moment. Panicked, he looks around the terminal for a sign of hope. He sees it. The men's room. Inside, he heads straight for the handicapped stall, as it is the only one that will fit his large girth. He balances his suitcase on the toilet and opens it, pushing aside the pile of dirty shirts to reveal a dozen small plastic bags, each filled with white powder. He stares at them, mentally weighing his options. With a sigh, he roots around the bottom of the suitcase until he extracts a small plastic spray bottle. He lifts the first bag, liberally sprays the exterior, places it in his mouth, and swallows. One by one, he swallows the remaining bags. He closes his suitcase, empties the contents of the spray bottle -- corn oil -- into the toilet, and flushes. He drops the empty bottle into the trash on his way out. He keeps his eyes down as he moves back toward his gate. When he looks up to join the line, he notices something. The security guard is gone. --------------- Mulder's Apartment Washington, DC Racing though the woods, stumbling over fallen logs, balance slipping on the icy patches of soil -- heart pounding, gasping for breath. Sounds of voices yelling in the background, ignored as the mind keeps a constant litany: "Oh my God. Oh my God. Get the hell out of my way! I've got to get there!" "Please, Mulder. Mulder, can you hear me?" Her voice is distant, faded. "No....please, no, why? Why did you do this to us? Why, damn it? Why now?" "Mulder, come on, talk to me, I'm right here. Please look at me. Come on, Mulder. I'm right here." "She's gone, Mulder." "No!!!" Scully screams, sitting up in bed, clutching a pillow to her chest. She clenches her eyes closed so tightly that she knows she's going to see spots when she opens them, which she doesn't want to do. Despite the emotional turmoil of the vivid images, she still relishes the sight of a living, breathing Mulder. She feels her heart break every time she opens her eyes, when her reality slams into her like a truck. She leans over and switches on the lamp, then reaches for her journal. She knows full well that it is a crutch, just like sleeping here – these are things she will have to give up in order to move on. But at this point, she needs the comfort they provide. --------------- From the Journal of Dana Scully December 30th, 2000 3:20 a.m. There's a dream I've been having almost every night since. I'm back in Montana, running through the woods, trying to find you. Hoping with all my might that it isn't you, that what they are saying isn't true. Then I see you, lying there, on the cold ground. I stop breathing. I can't feel my arms or legs, I'm just...numb. All I can do is fall beside you. And then I can feel you, and I can move again. I pull you into my arms, cradle you, desperate to warm you, much like in Antarctica. But then I close my eyes. And when I do, I find myself looking into your face, your eyes, and the grief I see there is unbearable. Because I'm the one who's dead. I’m dead, but I can still see you. I reach for you, but my arms won't move. I scream for you, but I make no sound. I go to bed every night hoping that the dream will end differently. But it never does. --------------- The Mayflower Hotel Washington, DC December 30th, 9:36 a.m. Doggett stands back, giving the crime-scene agents room to do their thing, but it isn't as though he's terribly eager to get a closer look at the victim. Or what's left of him, anyway. He glances at the doorway in time to see Scully flash her badge at the agent standing guard outside the room, then shakes his head in disbelief as she approaches him."The things that land in your in-box, Agent Scully." "Good morning, Agent Doggett," she replies, attempting a smile as an agent hands her a pair of latex gloves. "Sorry I'm late, but the traffic was a nightmare. And I didn't get a chance to look at the preliminary report.” She pulls the gloves on and begins to survey the crime scene, such as it is. As her eyes scan the room, she sees nothing unusual, except for the dead man in the middle of the bed, covered with a sheet. “So. What do we know?” "Well,we don't know much. Victim's name, according to his passport, was Hugh Potocki, from Minneapolis. He flew in from Bombay, India, and arrived in DC last night, laid over on his way home. Until he met with..." Doggett looks at the bed and cringes. "Well, from the looks of things, I'd say a very unfortunate accident." Scully steps closer to the remains of Mr. Potocki. From the chest up, there is nothing to indicate that he isn't still sleeping peacefully. His torso, however, tells a different story. She can't help her sharp intake of breath as she lifts up the sheet covering his body. The interior of his stomach is in plain sight, along with his intestines and several organs. Doggett conveniently positions himself so that the raised sheet blocks his view of the body almost entirely, then continues. "The front desk called Mr. Potocki at 7:30 this morning to tell him that the hotel shuttle was ready to take him to the airport. When he didn't pick up the phone, they figured he found his own ride. The maid came into the room a bit later, and must have gotten the surprise of her life.” Scully's initial shock at the massive damage wears off fairly quickly, and she now peers at the mutilation with an investigative eye, looking for any clue as to its cause. "Has the medical examiner seen this?" "Not yet," Doggett replies, his face still contorted in a grimace. "Latest word is he's stuck in the same traffic you were." She carefully lays the sheet back down and raises an eyebrow in amusement at her partner's expression of discomfort. "Well, we'll know more once we get some toxicology reports. Any sign of forced entry into the room?" "Nope. No one was seen coming or going after Mr. Potocki checked in at around 10:30 last night. According to the bellman, everyone who entered the hotel after that was a registered guest, and there were no reports of any unusual noises from anyone on this floor -- or any other floor, for that matter." "So no one knows anything, is that it?" Doggett grins. "Well, I guess that's why it's in your in-box, Agent Scully." --------------- Cheverly Heights Neighborhood Park Cheverly, Maryland 12:19 p.m. "You're it!" Andy laughs with mock ferocity as his snowball hits Bobby on the shoulder. He then turns to run as fast as he can, trying to avoid falling on his face in the two inches of heavy wet snow beneath his feet. "Oh, man, I'm gonna get you!" Bobby starts chasing after his best friend. "Ready or not, here I come!" he yells, officially starting the new round of the game. Eight or nine neighborhood boys are scattered around the park, playing their particular version of tag which, in the winter, is snowball-tag. The day is perfect for it -- clear and sunny, yet briskly cold. All the boys have energy to burn, the result of too much holiday sugar and too much time indoors over the last few days, trading around the new video games they all got for Christmas. Andy continues to run, doing his best to track Bobby's path. Once at a safe distance, he pauses, hands on his knees, to catch his breath. He keeps a close watch on the game, ready to run if Bobby looks like he's getting too close. However, out of the corner of his eye, he catches some movement by the large oak tree, about thirty yards to his right, at the edge of the park. He turns his head to look squarely at the tree. He squints at it for several moments, but sees nothing. He shakes it off, thinking a branch must have fallen, and chides himself for losing track of the game, as Bobby is now heading in his direction. He turns to run toward the oak, and when he looks at his target this time, he does see something. A very small man, with dark skin, dressed in rags, is standing next to the tree, half-hidden by the wide trunk. He is staring at Andy with large, protruding brown eyes. "Hey," Andy calls, the game completely forgotten. "Hey, mister. Aren't you cold?" The man says nothing. His eyes never waver from Andy. "Hey, mister!" Andy calls again. He straightens up and starts moving slowly toward the tree, the curiosity of his eleven-year-old mind preventing him from considering whether he should actually be afraid. Besides, the man is no bigger than Andy himself. "Are you okay?" As he gets closer, his eyes widen at the sight of the jagged scar across the man’s cheek. Andy feels the snowball hit him squarely in the back at the same moment he hears Bobby yell "Gotcha!" His eyes are still focused on the small man behind the tree trunk when, moments later, Bobby catches him around the middle and tackles him to the ground. "Ha!" Bobby laughs triumphantly. He lets go of Andy and falls onto his back in the snow, catching his breath. "I tackled you, that means no tagbacks!" Andy pulls himself up to his knees and tries to wipe the snow from his eyes with the back of his gloves. "Hey, wait a minute. Don't you see that guy?" Bobby sticks his head back to look at Andy upside-down. "What guy?" His eyes cleared, Andy points at the tree, but the man is gone. He stares at the spot next to the tree in disbelief. "There was a guy, this weird-looking short guy, standing by the tree. Didn't you see him?" Bobby hauls himself to his feet and brushes the snow from his jeans. "Nope. Forget it, man, you are totally it. But remember, you can't tag me! Come on, everyone is waiting!" He starts to jog back toward the rest of the group, but stops when he sees that Andy isn't following him. Andy stares at the tree for another moment. He can't believe he imagined it. He talked to the guy, for crying out loud. He walks over and peers up into the snow-covered branches, wondering if the man escaped into the tree, but there is no trace of him. "Come on, Andy," Bobby urges. "Whoever you saw is gone, okay? Are you playing, or what?" "Yeah. I guess he just ran off, that's all." Andy sounds more convinced than he feels. As he follows his friend, he can't resist checking up and down the street, looking for any sign of the odd little man. The only person he sees is a UPS driver carrying a box marked "Acme Chemicals" toward the front door of his own house. Another delivery for his mother. He shrugs, then turns his attention back to the game and eyes the group for the best target. "Ready or not, here I come!" --------------- Medical Examiner's Office 6:30 p.m. Scully sighs as she steps back up onto the footstool she has to use to conduct the autopsy. Even with the table lowered as far as it will go, the size of this corpse coupled with the unfamiliar roundness of her abdomen prevent her from reaching the proper angle with both feet on the floor. For once, she is grateful for the mysterious circumstances surrounding this man's death; she needs something that demands her complete attention. She sighs again as she removes yet another piece of the man's shredded torso and places it in the tray beside her. She hears a soft knock at the door. "Come in," she calls through her face mask, as she begins to cut what is left of Potocki's stomach away from his esophagus. "Are you sure?" Doggett asks as he pokes his head through one of the swinging doors. "I don't want to contaminate anything." Scully glances up at him without moving her head. "You think your germs might hurt him?" Doggett's brows knot together. He still doesn't move through the door. "That was a joke, Agent Doggett," Scully says, her eyes returning to her work. She completes the excision at the top of the stomach and turns to perform the same cut at the small intestine. "Yeah, I figured." Doggett smiles. "It's just...well, this isn't my favorite place to be, you know?" "Yes, I know," she says softly. Men, she thinks. She finishes the second cut and stands up straight, looking at her partner. "You want to talk outside?" Doggett is quick to recover his courage and steps fully inside the examining room, a manila folder under one arm. He looks around for someplace to stand where he won't have to see anything. "No, no. You don't have to stop. Here is fine." He cringes, but forces himself to watch, as Scully lifts the stomach out of the body, steps down off the stool, and walks over to drop the organ into the hanging scale. "So what did you find out about the victim?" Scully notes the weight of the stomach on the chart in front of her, then removes it from the scale and places it on a flat metal tray. She begins to inspect it. Doggett clears his throat, happy for the opportunity to focus his eyes on something other than the remnants of Mr. Potocki's stomach. He lays the folder open on the empty desk next to him and begins to read. "Well, Potocki here was a chemist. He was from Minneapolis originally, but also used to live in DC -- he's got one ex-wife in each town. He worked for various government agencies, then spent two years with a company called Crown Chemicals. Eight months ago, he moved back to Minneapolis and started his own sales company. It's domestic only, though, so we're still not sure what he was doing in India." He glances up at Scully, still bent over Potocki's stomach. "You get a cause of death?" "Yes. And I can guess what he was doing in India." She turns to face Doggett's expectant look as she removes her gloves, face mask, and goggles, and tosses them into the waste receptacle. "The toxicology report came back indicating that he had enough heroin in his bloodstream to kill two men his size." Doggett scoffs. "Are you telling me this was a routine overdose? I've seen bodies of OD victims before, Agent Scully, but I've never seen them explode." "Nor have I. Under normal circumstances, Mr. Potocki would have died long before that amount of heroin could ever have entered his system. But he didn't shoot it; he swallowed it." "He was smuggling," Doggett says, nodding. "Exactly," she confirms. "I keep finding bits of plastic in the remains of his midsection. He apparently coated small plastic bags of heroin with some kind of vegetable oil to make them easier to swallow." Scully closes her eyes and tries to stretch some of the tension out of her neck. "However, Mr. Potocki had a number of large stomach ulcers, and there reason most smugglers use condoms is because the acids in the stomach lining won’t erode latex, so plastic bags were not a good idea in his case. Technically, the cause of death is a drug overdose, but once his body stopped functioning, the abnormal amount of acid in his stomach reacted with the unabsorbed heroin, which caused a buildup of gases, which caused… this.” "We're sure it was the drugs that killed him, and not...?" Doggett waves his hand at the body. Scully smiles. "Yes, the eruption of his stomach was definitely post-mortem. Not much of a silver lining, I’d say.” A cell phone rings. Both agents reach for their pockets, but Scully's is the one that's ringing. She flips it open. "Scully." A pause. "Yes, this is Dana Scully. Who's calling, please?" Her face clouds over at the response. She closes her eyes for a moment. "Yes, yes, I know." She moves to a corner of the room, turning her back to Doggett. He takes the hint and begins to gather the Potocki file together, trying to give his partner some privacy, but he can't help overhearing. "No, that won't be necessary. Please, Mr. Anselmo, I'll make the arrangements, okay? Thank you." Scully clicks the phone closed, but continues to stand motionless in the corner, her head bowed, for several seconds. Doggett waits, asking no questions. He couldn’t tell what the phone call was about, but it was obviously something to do with Mulder, and he knows no words that would make anything any easier. Finally, she turns around. "I'm sorry, Agent Doggett, but I have to go." Though she attempts to keep her head down, he can still see the glint of tears welled in her eyes as she walks toward the door. "Will you find the medical examiner on duty and ask him to finish up Mr. Potocki? I've gotten all the evidence we need from him. I'm really sorry, but something's come up, and I..." Doggett doesn't make her finish the explanation. "Yes, of course, go on. I'll find the doctor." Scully can hardly bear the sympathy present in his expression; he's lost someone too, after all. "Thank you," she says, her voice barely above a whisper, as she pushes through the swinging door. --------------- The Moore Residence Cheverly, Maryland 10:12 p.m. Andy stares at the full moon shining brightly outside his bedroom window. He's having trouble falling asleep tonight, although his body is certainly tired. He decides the moon is too bright. That's why he can't fall asleep. He stands up on his bed and reaches for the rod to twist the blinds closed. Some light is still streaming in, but only a little. He settles back down and once again faces the wall. His eyes fall closed, but only for a moment, until he hears his closet door creak open. He stops breathing, then slowly turns over as he sits up to look across the room. The small dark man is standing in his closet, staring at him. The spare moonlight catches the whites of his eyes; they seem to glow. Andy lets out a scream. "Go away! GO AWAY!!" he cries, over and over. The man doesn’t move. * * * * * A few moments later, Gail Moore appears in the doorway, then rushes to her son's bedside. "Andy? Andy, honey, it's okay! You're all right!" She tries to gather her sobbing child into her arms, but he is flailing. "No, no! He's right there! Look, in the closet!!" Gail glances back, but sees nothing. "There's no one there, honey. You were just having a bad dream, that's all!" She puts her hands on his shoulders to lower his arms, then pulls him into her embrace, gently rocking him. He shudders, taking several deep breaths before trying to explain. "But I saw him today in the park, and then he was right there." "Who, sweetie? Who did you see in the park?" "I don't know," Andy says, scrubbing his eyes with the backs of his hands. "This strange little man with a freaky scar. He was standing by the tree in the park today, and then he was gone, and then he was just in the closet, Mom, I swear!" Gail can tell he's starting to cry again. "Sweetie, I know, sometimes dreams can seem very real. You were probably just scared by whoever you saw in the park, so you dreamed he was right here in your room. But look, honey." She reaches over and turns on the lamp beside his bed, then pulls the closet door all the way open. "There's no one there, okay?" Andy sighs. "Okay." He starts to scoot back down under the covers. Gail tucks him in, then switches the lamp back off. "Mom? Will you stay here until I fall asleep?" Gail smiles down at him. “Of course,” she says soothingly. He turns back to face the wall as she strokes her son’s ruffled hair for a few minutes, until she hears the familiar steady breathing of sleep. She leans over and kisses the top of his head before slowly standing up. Before leaving the room, she takes one last look at the closet, then smiles at her foolishness. She heads into the living room and leans over the back of the recliner from which her husband, Andrew, is watching a late football game. He leans back to look up at her. "Is he all right?" "Just a nightmare, but it scared him pretty good. He thought he saw a man with big eyes staring at him from his closet. I haven't seen him get that upset from a bad dream in years, but he's back asleep now." "I'm sure he'll be fine. He'll forget about it by the morning." "I hope so." Gail smiles down at her husband. "I think I'm going to go down and do some work. Don't wait up, okay?" "Okay." He smiles back, then returns his attention to the game as his wife walks over to the stairwell descending to the basement and pulls the door closed behind her. * * * * * December 31st, 2000 Scully's Apartment 8:15 a.m. "No, you guys, that goes in the bedroom." "I thought you said you wanted the end table in the living room," Byers groans. "I do. That's not an end table, it's a side table, and it goes in the bedroom." Langly and Byers change direction and maneuver the table back around the couch toward Scully's bedroom. She steps out into the hallway and begins to carry in one of Mulder's lamps, only to be met by Frohike, who practically wrenches it out of her hand. "You shouldn't be lifting anything, in your condition," he says, in his most gentlemanly tone, carrying the lamp into the apartment. "Frohike, my briefcase weighs more than that," she mutters. "But thank you. You can put that wherever." "Oh, sure," Langly cracks, loping back into the living room, followed by Byers who is busily brushing dust off his pants. "We have to carry everything back and forth a thousand times, but the little guy gets 'wherever.'" Byers leans in toward Scully confidentially. "By the way, we checked over all of Mulder's stuff for bugs. Everything's clean." "Thank you," Scully says, mocking his tone ever so slightly, but with affection. She smiles up at him, her eyes expressing what she can't form the words to say. Emptying Mulder's apartment was extremely difficult, but she didn't know whether she would have been able to do it at all without the Gunmen. She needed their physical manpower, certainly, but she also needed their comforting comic relief. Scully suddenly turns back to Byers. "You didn't move...?" He studies Scully's features, trying to confirm that he understands what she's talking about; he realizes she is. "I didn't know you'd known about that. Mulder wanted it there, just in case he needed...protection...that couldn't be traced. We'll take care of it." "No," Scully says vehemently. "I'll take care of it." "Hey, Scully," Frohike calls from the hallway. "Weren't you there that time Mulder told me that if anything ever happened to him, he wanted me to have the Royal Typewriter poster?" "No way!" Langly strides over to him. "He said I could have it, buttmunch." Scully freezes on hearing the juvenile insult. Her eyes fill instantly, and she fights desperately to maintain the control she's barely managed to hang onto all morning. “Samantha… used to call him that,” she breathes, her voice barely above a whisper. She sways a little before grasping the edge of the table to steady herself. She lowers her head to hide her tears, biting her lip. "Scully?" Frohike quickly approaches her, alarmed, but is halted by the hand Scully waves in his direction. "I'm fine," she says reflexively, but her voice is strangled. She grips the table with all her might, her body reverberating with tension as she raises her head and stares, unseeing, out the window. Her face has a look of cold fury so intense that Frohike catches his breath. A tiny trickle of blood seeps from her lower lip where she's bitten through the skin. Langly and Byers exchange a look. The phone rings. No one moves. It rings again. Finally Scully shakes her head, the movement returning her to herself, and she slowly pries her fingers from the edge of the table. "Sorry, guys, but the poster stays here," Scully says over her shoulder, her voice back to normal if a little weary. She reaches for the phone. "Hello?" "Agent Scully, John Doggett. I'm sorry to bother you at home, but there's been another chemical-related death out in Maryland, kind of...unusual, and we've been called to the scene. It's actually not far from my house, so I'm heading straight over. Can you meet me there?" "Sure. What's the address?" "It's 116 Montrose, in Cheverly. Call my cell if you get lost." Scully hangs up and turns to the Gunmen with a look of apology. "Sorry again, guys. Duty calls. I'm not sure how long this will take..." "It's okay," Byers says gently. "We'll finish bringing everything in, make sure the fishtank is running okay, and let ourselves out. We can come back whenever to help you get the rest put away." Scully smiles her gratitude. "Thanks. And, uh, keep Frohike out of my underwear drawer." Frohike adopts an indignant expression as the other two chuckle amiably, more from relief than humor. Scully pulls on her overcoat and reaches for her keys. Her hand comes to rest on the keys to Mulder’s apartment instead, hanging from the Apollo 11 keyring he had given her for her birthday years before. She studies the medallion as though she hasn't seen it for a long time, and runs its keys through her fingers. Thoughtfully, she peels those keys from the ring and carefully places them on the table. Her fingertips trace their jagged shape once more before she picks up her own keys and walks out the door. * * * * * The Moore Residence Cheverly, Maryland 10:40 a.m. Scully carefully steps down to the makeshift chemistry lab in the basement of the Moores' home. A sheet covers Gail Moore's body, which lies in the middle of the cement floor. Once again, a crime-scene agent hands Scully a pair of gloves, and once again, she braces herself before lifting the sheet. This time, however, there is no massive physical injury, just some dried blood around the woman's nose and mouth. The tissue around her eyes appears to be swollen. Scully stands up and surveys the lab. She notices a pair of protective goggles on the floor, about five feet from the body. She also sees a line of black residue approximately two feet long stretching across the lab's work surface. Several plastic bottles of chemicals are open nearby, but all the other materials are stacked and labeled neatly in the metal storage cabinet currently being dusted for fingerprints by one of the technicians. Scully heads back upstairs to find Doggett and the woman's husband sitting at the kitchen table. "I just don't understand," she hears the husband say as she approaches. "Mr. Moore?" she says quietly as she sits down with them. "Yeah," he says flatly, his eyes focused on an invisible spot in the middle of the table. Doggett makes the introduction. "This is my partner, Agent Dana Scully. Agent Scully, Mr. Moore was just telling me that his wife went downstairs last night, a little after 10:30, to do some work. She told him not to wait up, so he went to bed without her." Andrew Moore's tone is monotonous. "But when she wasn't there when I got up this morning, I still didn't really worry. She always worked in her lab when she couldn't sleep, so I figured she must have just gotten up early. It wasn't until I was ready to leave for work that I finally opened the door and called down to her, but..." He drops his head in his hands. "What did your wife do, Mr. Moore?" Scully asks. "She taught chemistry at Cheverly High School. It was only her first year, but she really loved it. She was spending every spare minute of Christmas break in her lab, working out new experiments for her students." "What did she do before she started teaching?" Doggett pulls a spiral notepad from his interior jacket pocket and flips it open. "She used to be a research scientist at George Washington. About two years ago, she went to work for Crown Chemicals, to help them open a plant in India, some little town outside of Bombay. She was devastated about the accident. Then she started hearing people accusing her of being one of the ones who caused it, and she decided to quit before they could fire her." "The accident?" Scully queries. She doesn't know what he's talking about. "Look, she didn't have anything to do with it, okay? Crown accused some of the scientists of running a scam, buying cheaper chemicals on the black market and pocketing the difference, but she wasn't involved in it. She'd never do anything like that." Doggett waits for Andrew to compose himself, then plays a hunch. "Did you know a man named Hugh Potocki?" Andrew rolls his eyes. "Yes, of course. Gail was pretty sure he was involved, and I think he did get fired for it. She never had anything but horrible things to say about him." Scully follows Doggett's lead. "Mr. Moore, are there any other Crown employees here, in the DC area, who lost their jobs because of what happened?" "I don't know, really. A lot of them were government employees recruited out of a federal research project, but I'm not sure who returned to DC, other than the former CEO, Ed Whittaker. He actually lives in the neighborhood. Our sons are best friends." He looks at the two agents. "Do you think this has something to do with Gail?" "Dad?" Everyone at the table turns toward the voice. Andy is standing in the doorway, still in his pajamas. His father tears up immediately, and beckons his son over. "Andy, this is Agent Doggett and Agent Scully. They're going to help us figure out what happened to Mom." "Did you tell him about the man, Dad?" "What man, Andy?" "The man in my room last night." The child's voice wavers as though he is trying not to cry, determined to maintain his eleven-year-old dignity. A look of understanding crosses his father's face. "Oh, no, son, that was a dream. Your mom told me you had a nightmare." "I know. But it wasn't. It was real." "I promise you, Andy, no one could have gotten into your room without me seeing them, okay?" Andrew hugs his son closer, but Andy is unconvinced. Scully leans toward the boy, looking at him with concern. "What did you see, Andy?" "It was a man, but he was small, like my size, but you could tell he was a grown-up. He had dark skin and really big eyes and a big scar all the way across his cheek." Andy’s finger traces a path from his own ear to the corner of his mouth. "I saw him in the park yesterday, and then he was in my room last night." "Did he try to hurt you?" Scully asks gently. "No, I guess not. He just stared at me. All I could really see were his eyes, but I know it was the same guy from the park." Scully tries to offer a comforting smile, but she's not sure she's successful. Andrew urges his son to go get dressed, and the child obeys silently. After a moment, Andrew turns back to the agents. "I don't know what to do," he confesses with a mirthless laugh. "I tell him to go get dressed, because that's what he does every day, but I don't know what I'm going to tell him when he comes back out." Neither of the agents speak, and suddenly Scully realizes that she needs to leave. Immediately. It's too close for her. Too soon. She stands, removing a business card from her badge wallet and sliding it across the table. "Thanks for your time, Mr. Moore. We'll keep in touch. Give us a call if you think of anything else, okay?" Andrew doesn't look up. "Okay." Scully glances briefly at Doggett before she turns and walks quickly out the front door. Doggett slowly rises to his feet. "Please excuse my partner, Mr. Moore. She..." He takes a breath. "Well, she just lost someone, too." "Oh," Andrew replies, without emotion. His eyes rise to meet Doggett's. "Is it getting easier?" Doggett hesitates, then answers honestly. "I don't know." Andrew's gaze returns to the table. * * * * * FBI Headquarters 1:10 p.m. Scully is staring at the images on her computer screen. A headline from the Bombay Observer, February, 2000: "118 Villagers Die; Crown Under Investigation." Scully clicks through the various reports. Apparently, there was an explosion at the plant, and a large cloud of gas was released; it descended on the villagers and caused massive casualties. As she scans the newspaper stories for some mention of an investigation into the employees, her eye fixes on one particular photograph, and her breath catches. It shows a small man sitting cross-legged on the dusty ground. In front of him are two bodies, those of a woman and a toddler. The man is staring straight into the camera lens. With noticeably large eyes. And a long, jagged scar across one cheek. The caption describes the scene as "a holy man of the Chamar caste, meditating over the bodies of his dead wife and son." Scully stares at the picture for a full minute, her breath catching in her throat. She finally turns to rifle through Mulder's Rolodex, then picks up the phone. * * * * * FBI Headquarters Forty Minutes Later Scully is still studying the various articles with such concentration that she doesn't hear the heavy footsteps approaching the office. "Hey, Agent Scully." She looks up from her research with a start. "Agent Doggett. I'm sorry I left in such a rush this morning, I just...I..." Doggett cuts her off. "Don't worry about it. Listen, I just picked up the report on the chemicals we found in Mrs. Moore's lab." Scully leans back in her chair as Doggett sits down on the other side of the desk. "What does it say?" "Apparently, she was trying out some kind of experiment using sulfuric acid and powdered carbon, which were supposed to react together to ignite a layer of sucrose underneath the carbon, and put on quite a light show for the students." Scully nods in understanding. "I've seen that one before. But I can't imagine how it would be harmful. Perhaps, if too much sulfuric acid was used, the fire might shoot out too far. But I didn't see any burns on Mrs. Moore's face or clothing, and the fire wouldn't last long enough to be lethal." "Well, the test results indicate that the sucrose wasn't sucrose, it was potassium chlorate." “Potassium chlorate?” Scully breathes, sitting up straight. “If she used that instead of sucrose, it would have reacted with the carbon to form chlorine gas, which is extremely poisonous." Doggett checks the file. "You're right. It's what they suspect, anyway." "But I don't understand how Mrs. Moore could have made a mistake like that. That's basic chemistry. It's impossible that someone with her background would not have known to avoid that chemical combination." "You're right about that, too. Mrs. Moore apparently thought she was conducting the experiment properly, because there was an open container of sucrose on the counter. But when they tested the contents, it wasn't sucrose. It was potassium chlorate." Scully can't believe what she's hearing. "The bottle was mislabeled?" "Yep," replies Doggett. "But that's not the end of the story. There were three bottles labeled as sucrose in her lab, all containing potassium chlorate. They were delivered by UPS in one package, just yesterday. The empty box was still in the basement, with the dated packing slip listing the contents. But the UPS driver responsible for that route, a guy named Greg Murphy, claims he didn't make any deliveries to 116 Montrose yesterday." Scully frowns. "Another driver made the delivery?" "Well, that's just it. Greg Murphy said that a box from Acme Chemicals to Gail Moore was loaded onto his truck yesterday morning. Now, he doesn't load the truck himself, he just follows the log to make his deliveries, but when he got to Mrs. Moore's house, he couldn't find the box. He knows Mrs. Moore, because he delivers chemicals to her all the time, so he goes to her door to see if she was expecting a delivery that day, and she tells him that another driver was already there." "So there was a mistake on the log," Scully says, unsure where Doggett is going with this. "Maybe, maybe not, but here's the kicker: none of the UPS drivers working out of the Western Maryland distribution center made a delivery to 116 Montrose yesterday." Scully leans forward, looking at Doggett intently, wanting to make sure she understands exactly what he is saying. "The regular driver is sure Mrs. Moore said it was another UPS driver? The right uniform and everything?" "Yeah. She told him that she had asked the other driver where Greg was, and the driver just shook his head, not saying anything." As Doggett finishes his sentence, the agents hear a knock on the open door to the office. "Agent Scully?" The rumpled man in the doorway speaks hesitantly. She stands up behind the desk just as Doggett rises too. "Yes, Chuck, come on in. Chuck Burks, this is Agent John Doggett." The men shake hands as Scully continues the introduction. "Dr. Burks runs the Advanced Digital Imaging Lab at the University of Maryland. He's consulted with us on several cases in the past." "Well, it's nice to meet you, Dr. Burks." Doggett smiles, but a slightly puzzled expression passes over his face. "I'm sorry, but, ah, I guess I'm just missing the digital imaging angle in this case." Chuck laughs amiably. "Oh, I'm not here about that. I dabble in Eastern religions, mysticism, the occult, things of that sort. Agent Scully called me in..." Scully sees Doggett's expression begin to shift, and she cuts Chuck off. "I was looking at some reports of the accident Andrew Moore mentioned, and I found a picture of the man Andy described to us today. The newspaper identified him as a type of holy man, so I called Dr. Burks for some background information." Doggett seems to consider how best to respond. "Well," he says casually, "Agent Scully is always encouraging me to keep an open mind, so why don't you tell us what you were able to find out?" He points Chuck to the chair he just vacated, and moves over to lean against the filing cabinet. "Thanks," Chuck says as he sits down across from Scully. "Well, I checked out the links you sent me, Agent Scully, and I believe the man in the picture is what's known as a Fakir." "And what is that, exactly?" Scully asks. "Well, they're ascetic masters, bound to acts of self-torture to attain enlightenment. The Chamar caste, that's the beggar caste. And Fakir are often of low birth, so it fits." He leans forward to pick up the picture, then scans the accompanying story. "See, it says here that this man had been sitting next to his family, staring straight ahead, for three solid days when this picture was taken." Chuck shudders, tossing the printout back on the desk. "If sitting motionless for three days in front of your dead wife and child isn't self-torture, I don't know what is." Doggett steps to the edge of the desk and turns the picture toward himself. "So, these Fakir, they're religious men?" Chuck looks thoughtful. "Well, kind of. Their practices would probably be categorized as occult, if subjected to Western standards of what is religion and what isn't. They're mystics, really. They believe their powers flow straight from the divine." "What kind of powers?" Scully asks. "Powers of the mind. Manipulation of the environment. Technically, your perception of the environment. The most powerful, a group known as Siddhi mystics, have reportedly been able to become invisible -- well, make you think they're invisible -- by blocking your ability to see them." "What is that, like, hypnotism?" Doggett suggests with only a slight edge of sarcasm. Chuck considers this, then nods. "Yes, I suppose you could say that. They are still there, right in front of you. They just make you think they aren't." Doggett resumes his position by the filing cabinet. "Wait, I don't understand this. If they're still physically present, taking up space, then how can anyone see through them?" "Think of it this way, Agent Doggett. From where you're standing, you'd know what this chair would look like if I wasn't sitting in it, right?" Doggett's eyebrows rise, as though he is surprised. "Well, yeah, I guess so." "Then that's what the Fakir would make you see. Interestingly, they can also make you think you're seeing someone else, as well as no one at all." Doggett gestures at the picture on the desk. "So, for all we know, Dr. Burks, we could be here talking to this guy, and not you." Now Chuck shakes his head definitively. "No, Agent Doggett, that's not quite right. Keep in mind that their powers aren't physical. They can't become another person, or become physically invisible; they just alter your visual perception. So you can rest assured that I'm not a Siddhi mystic, because I wouldn't be able to talk to you in Chuck's voice." "Your voice." Scully says this quietly, almost to herself. She turns to face Chuck. "So if the Fakir was impersonating someone, he wouldn't be able to talk?" "Nope," Chuck replies. "Not unless he was able to get away with using his own voice. For example, if he was in his own country, and talking to someone who didn't know the person he was pretending to be..." Scully gently interrupts him. "But he couldn't impersonate you, or me, and get away with saying anything?" "No." Scully looks over at Doggett. "Mrs. Moore told Greg Murphy that when she asked the mystery UPS driver where the regular driver was, he didn't answer. He just shook his head." Doggett is obviously leery of this theory. "So you think this guy delivered the mislabeled chemicals to Mrs. Moore by making her think he was a UPS driver?" Chuck can barely contain his enthusiasm. "I don't even know what you're talking about, you guys, but what he just said is entirely possible. The only thing is..." Scully and Doggett both look at him expectantly. "What is it, Chuck?" Scully urges. "Well, it's just that a Fakir isn't supposed to use his powers for his own purposes, to achieve his own personal, earthly goals. These abilities are obtained only by those with the greatest reverence, the holiest of holy men. To use them to satisfy human desires would be the equivalent of committing the most heinous mortal sin. And in the Siddhi tradition, there is no repentance. No way to get out of it after the fact." "So what would happen to him?" Doggett asks, curious. "Damnation. His soul will eternally suffer the torture he inflicts on Earth." Scully stares down at the picture of the Fakir, and she is surprised to discover that she sees something in his stoic, focused eyes. She identifies with him. And suddenly, she understands. "Revenge," she says quietly. She gazes at the picture for another moment, then looks up at the two men, her voice stronger now. "It's revenge. This man is exacting revenge from those he believes to be responsible for the deaths of his wife and son. The employees of Crown who were accused of running the scam." Doggett is not convinced. "I don't know, Agent Scully. I'm sure you can imagine that I'm having a hard time buying all this hypnotism stuff. But assuming that premise is true, would someone who devoted his life to developing these powerful abilities be willing to risk his soul for all eternity...just for revenge?" Scully returns her focus to the picture and stares into the man's eyes for another long moment. She is afraid of the answer. * * * * * Scully's Apartment 11:15 p.m. All evening, Scully has not been able to keep her eyes off the picture of the Fakir for more than a few minutes. No matter how involved she becomes in her research, she finds herself constantly turning back to the eerie photograph. She's also been unable to sit still, which is unusual for her. She's eliminated caffeine from her diet because of the pregnancy, but even so... Mulder had always been the restless one. She forces the errant thought from her mind. "Not now, not now," she whispers to herself, turning her attention to the fruits of her evening's work -- an even bigger pile of reports, news articles, and background information, spread corner to corner across her dining room table. First, a series of newspaper articles on the investigation into Crown after the explosion. The accident was determined to have been caused by the use of substandard chemicals. Apparently, several executives at the plant outside Bombay had decided to cheat the company by buying quantities of lower-grade chemicals on the black market, and cooked the books so that the money they saved went into their own pockets. Fifteen employees, including Gail Moore and Hugh Potocki, either quit or lost their jobs. Then there are reports of the deaths of two other former Crown employees accused of operating the scam. Both had decided to stay in India, relocating to New Delhi and accepting new jobs with a division of Roush Pharmaceuticals. One man had fallen from his 25th-floor office window; as no one else was seen in his office at the time, it was ruled a suicide. The other employee was also found dead at work, a bottle of arsenic on his desk and traces of the poison in his half-empty coffee mug. Again, the death was ruled a suicide and the matter was closed. Finally, there are numerous abstracts on the Siddhi mystics -- their history, their traditions, their powers, and their laws. All of them support what Chuck Burks had said that afternoon; these people are deeply religious and extremely humble, and they do not tolerate one of their own using their holy abilities to fulfill base human desires. In fact, one of the prayers that the Siddhi must recite each day contains an acknowledgement of the eternal punishment and retribution that will result from misuse of their sacred gifts. Scully wonders why Doggett’s final question that afternoon, whether the Fakir would risk such damnation for revenge, has struck a nerve. However, her scientific mind forces her to step back now, to evaluate the Fakir's motives and try to determine if he is, in fact, capable of what he appears to be doing. She shuffles the papers on the table until she finds what she is looking for: a psychological profile of the revenge killer. "A person who kills for revenge is motivated by a goal of emotional satisfaction. He feels he has been wronged in some way, and he feels that the law has not enforced a sufficient punishment on the wrongdoer. Sociological studies have shown that most acts of revenge are equal in severity to the perceived harm that has been inflicted. If, for example, a person's car has been damaged by a known acquaintance, and that person decides to seek revenge, he is most likely to attempt to damage the acquaintance's car in a similar fashion. "Therefore, those who seek revenge by murder are most often survivors of family or friends who have died at the hands of someone who, for whatever reason, escapes culpability. The revenge killer believes that his acts are justified; society has failed to exact the proper punishment, so he is now entitled to do so on his own." Scully once again returns to the photo of the Fakir. Is this what was forming in his mind? A plan to avenge the death of his wife and son? Sitting there, for those three days, did he throw out everything he believed in up to that point, and decide it was worth the risk to his eternal existence? Can a desire for revenge make a murderer of someone who never would have considered it before? Scully is startled out of her reverie by the sounds of horns and firecrackers in the street. It's midnight, the New Year. It's no longer 2000. She had forgotten. She eases herself out of her chair and moves to the window, watching young, tipsy revelers wave sparklers in the frigid midnight air. She considers switching on the television, perhaps to catch a glimpse of the traditional New Year's party in Times Square. That is all it takes. The memories tumble through her head now. She cannot stop them. Her eyes fall closed against the onslaught. New Year's Eve, 1999. The long-awaited millennium, except not really. "Nobody likes a math geek, Scully." Saying goodbye to Frank Black and his daughter. Standing in the hospital waiting room by his side, watching the ball drop. Watching the Times Square partygoers sing "Auld Lang Syne." And doing what you're supposed to do at midnight on the New Year. Simple, tender, perfect. The world didn't end; she was sure it would go on forever. She was sure of so much, before. Her hand drifts to her rounded stomach and rests there for a moment. Then it moves slowly up her body until it reaches her neck, until her thumb brushes a certain part of her skin. The part where her cross no longer rests. * * * * * January 1, 2001 The Whittaker Residence Doggett climbs up the wooden stairs to the large wraparound porch, taking care to avoid the icy patches. He knocks on the door. A child's head peeks through the curtains of the window along the side, then disappears. A moment later the door opens. "Um, who are you?" Bobby mumbles to the stranger. "My name's John Doggett. I'm an agent with the FBI," Doggett responds, handing his identification to the wide-eyed boy. "Cool!" Bobby exclaims while examining the badge. "Andy told me about you." Doggett smiles as he takes back his ID. "Is your father home? I need to see him for a minute." Doggett notices the look of fear cross the child's face. "Don't worry, son, he's not in any trouble." "Okay, then. I guess you can come in." Bobby turns and flies into the house, yelling, "Dad! Someone's here to see you!" Doggett wipes his feet on the mat lying at the door and enters the house, shutting the door behind him. He doesn’t notice the small man standing near the end of the porch. Doggett waits in the foyer, watching Bobby head to the living room and leap over the back of the couch, flopping himself down and grabbing a Nintendo controller just before he lands on it. He spies Andy lying on the floor, engrossed in the game. A tall, middle-aged man in a dark sweater and jeans enters the foyer and eyes Doggett inquisitively. "Hi, can I help you with something?" "Ed Whittaker?" The man doesn't respond. "Sorry, sir, I'm Special Agent John Doggett with the FBI. I'm investigating the death of Gail Moore." Ed's face relaxes and he offers his hand. "Hi, yes. Andrew told me a couple of agents had been to see him. My wife and I invited them over for dinner. We thought it might be good for them to get out of the house." "Yes, sir. I won't take up too much of your time. I'm here because...well, we're concerned that there might be a pattern involved, with former Crown executives." "What do you mean?" "Well, Hugh Potocki died under mysterious circumstances the day before Gail's accident." "Potocki!" Ed snarls. "I'm not surprised. That SOB had it coming. He was totally incompetent, a drug addict. He was the one who caused the whole thing in India, you know. But he was too much of a coward to admit it, so he had to take the rest of us down, too. And I'm sure it didn't have anything to do with what happened to Gail. That was just a freak accident, with the bottles being mislabeled, right?" Doggett simply nods. "Well, that's all we know so far. Other than the coincidence that they both worked at Crown and left after the explosion, I have to admit we don't have a lot to tie things together right now. But we thought we'd play it safe, to let you know what's going on." "You know what they say about people who are paranoid, Agent Doggett," Mr. Whittaker laughs, shaking his head. "But thanks for taking the time. Happy New Year." He offers his hand once again. "Happy New Year, sir," Doggett replies. Just as he turns to leave, he notices Andy standing by the couch, shuffling his feet together. He slowly approaches the agent. "Um, Agent Doggett?" Doggett smiles down at the boy. "Hey, how you doin', Andy?" Andy just shrugs and sighs, staring at the ground. "Sir, I wanted to ask if you found that little man?" Doggett is unsure of how to respond but bends over to try to catch his eye. "Well, Andy, we never did find him. But I wouldn't worry about that. Dollars to donuts, he'll turn up." Andy looks up from his shoes to meet Doggett's eyes but stops just short. He fixates on something just beyond Doggett and gasps. "What is it, Andy?" Doggett quickly turns and looks out the window, but he sees nothing. He turns back to the boy. "It's him! It's him, right outside," Andy pants, starting to cry. "Go away. Go away, you freak, leave us alone!!" Doggett darts to the window, looking for any sign of what Andy thinks he saw. The sobbing boy's father rushes into the foyer after hearing Andy's screams. "Son, what's wrong? What do you see?" Andy hides his head against his father's chest. "It was him, Dad. It was him. Why won't anyone believe me??" Doggett turns away from the window. He hadn't seen a thing, but he doesn't have the heart to say it, as the boy is obviously terrified. "Agent Doggett, I think we've had enough of this for today," Andy's father says, turning to lead Andy back into the living room. "Yes, sir. Sorry for the intrusion," Doggett offers sheepishly, then exits the house. * * * * * Saint Dominic's Washington, DC Scully walks into the nave after the evening service and heads straight up the right hand side, towards the small shrine in the back, near the chapel. She slips a five dollar bill into the small slot on the bottom of the gold-inlaid candle table and pulls a matchbook out of the accompanying slot. She strikes a match and lights a candle, then lowers herself onto the red velvet kneeler before her and begins to pray. "Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name." Scully pauses, her head spinning. The simple prayer, a comfort since he childhood, rings hollow in her ears and catches in her throat. She exhales a single word, "Why?" as the flickering candlelight reflects off the surface of the single tear staining her cheek. "Someone, a believer of sorts, told me once that I should pray to find the answers, to find Mulder." With bitter condemnation Scully spits out, "I prayed, God. I prayed!" Scully's face crumples as the sobs begin to tear right through her well controlled demeanor. "Why must vengeance be yours only?" She speaks through gritted teeth. She furiously wipes away the tears, now streaking down her face, with the back of her hand, then stands, turning to leave. After buttoning her heavy black coat and sliding on her gloves, she pauses then turns to the shrine once again. Scully bends slightly and forces out a breath, extinguishing the candles she had just lit. With disdain coloring her eyes, she faces the statue defiantly, expectantly. As if challenging God himself to answer her. She sighs, shaking her head in frustration, and once again begins her walk out of the church. * * * * * The Moore Residence Cheverly, Maryland 10:15 p.m. "Andy? It's Bobby. Can you come over?" The boy's voice is a shaky whisper. Andy grips the phone to his ear. "I don't think so. My dad's asleep. The doctors gave him something to help him sleep and I'm not supposed to wake him up. Why are you whispering?" "I think -- I think that man is in the house." Andy inhales sharply. "How do you know? Did you see him? You could see him?" "Yeah. I think so. Really short, big bug eyes? Ugly scar?" "Yes! That's him! Bobby, you have to get out of there!" "Well, I can't! I'm hiding in the crawl space behind my closet. He'll never find me here. You have to help me!" Andy thinks frantically for a minute. "Okay, I have an idea. Just stay quiet. I'll be right there." Andy runs to the kitchen and quickly finds what he's looking for -- Agent Dana Scully's business card. He dials the cell phone number. --------------- The Whittaker Residence Scully is in her car, surveilling the Whittaker house. She keeps her eyes open, but her mind continues to race. She is unable to shake the discomfort she has felt since the moment she walked out of St. Dominic’s. Her cell phone, however, jolts her back to the present. "Scully," she answers. "Hi, um, this is Andy Moore. Do you remember me?" Scully sits up at full attention now. "Yes, Andy, what is going on?" "Bobby just called me. He can see the little man too. He's in Bobby's house right now." "Is he sure?" "Well, that's what he said. What should we do?" "Andy, I'm already outside Bobby's house, okay? So I'll go check it out right now." "Okay. Should I call Bobby back?" "No, don't make his phone ring. Just let me take care of it, okay? I'll make sure he calls you when we know he's safe." Scully hangs up the phone and exits the car, unwilling to risk the noise of closing the door. She pulls her gun and strides quickly over to the Whittaker house. She tries the front door. It is unlocked. She slips inside quietly. When her eyes adjust to the darkness, her heart sinks when sees the body of a man, crumpled at the bottom of the circular staircase in the foyer, his limbs twisted unnaturally, fresh blood congealing around a large head wound. She glances around the rooms surrounding the foyer but sees nothing out of place. She begins to make her way up the stairs, her gun extended in front of her, when light suddenly floods the landing. She sees a boy at the top of the staircase, his hand lowering from the light switch. Scully pulls her gun back to her shoulder. "Bobby? Bobby, are you all right?" Bobby says nothing. He is staring at the body of his father at the bottom of the stairs. Scully starts to move slowly up the stairs, her heart in her throat over what the boy is seeing. "Bobby, everything's going to be all right. We're going to catch the man who did this, okay? Please, sweetie, don't look at him anymore." Bobby seems to be listening. His eyes move to hers, and she freezes on the stairs. "IT'S HIM!" Scully looks for the source of the startling shriek. Andy is standing in the foyer, just inside the door, pointing at Bobby. "It's him, Agent Scully! Can't you see? It's him! Shoot him! Please, shoot him!" Scully's eyes return to the face of the boy at the top of the stairs. His gaze is still locked on her. She stares at him for another moment, at the eyes of this eleven-year-old boy, then levels her gun. "If that's you, Bobby, you must speak to me," Scully says slowly. “Please, say something.” But all she hears is Andy's cry: "It's him, it's that man!" She waits for an interminable moment, gun poised. Then, the figure at the top of the stairs dashes forward, flying toward her. Andy screams. * * * * * Andy and Bobby, both pale and in shock, nod as Doggett speaks to them through the open door of the patrol car. He closes the door and pats the roof of the car as it slowly starts to pull away from the scene. The entire street is blocked off by police tape. The lights from the emergency vehicles cast strange reflections in the slush covering the ground. Scully, her black cashmere coat pulled tight around her, is leaning against her car, head straight up, staring into the inky black sky. "You going to be okay, Agent Scully?" Doggett inquires, after a moment's hesitation. A slight nod is the only response. "I got a drift of what happened in there," Doggett remarks as he settles in next to her, leaning against the car. As he turns to look for her response, he notes the illumination of the flashing red lights, coloring her face. "How is he?" Scully finally asks. "He? Well, Bobby and Andy are both being taken to the hospital just as a precaution, but other than being rather shaken, they seem fine." Doggett doesn't see any sort of reaction from Scully; it doesn't appear that she is listening at all, but he knows she is. "As for the Fakir, um, the EMTs worked on him a while, but...they weren't able to save him." Scully nods, her lips taut, her eyes on the heavens. "He died because he had done what he came here to do, Agent Doggett. He brought those he thought were responsible to justice." "That may be true, but that doesn't make it right. It doesn't matter if he was doing it out of anger, or vengeance, or some misguided religious quest." Scully tilts her head, looking up at Doggett as her hair falls across her face at an angle. "The Bible allows for vengeance." "Well, I'm no expert on the Bible, Agent Scully, but the law doesn't." A faint smile crosses Scully's lips as she nods slightly, turning her focus back to the starlight. Doggett clears his throat, unsure of how to continue. "Uh...Andy told the other agents that this Fakir character looked like Bobby to you when you found him." "He did," Scully nods in agreement. "Then, how did you know? How did you know it wasn't really him?" Scully smiles faintly again. "You mean how did I shoot what appeared to be a child?" "Well, yeah." "Because I saw what Mulder would have seen. And I knew what Mulder would have done." With that, she pulls her keys from her coat pocket and climbs into her car. Doggett steps back up on the curb as she starts the car and drives away. * * * * * January 2nd, 2001 FBI Headquarters 7:30 p.m. "Agent Doggett?" Doggett looks up from his typewriter to find Agent Skinner standing in the doorway. "I'm sorry, sir, I was just finishing some paperwork..." Skinner replies, "I didn't mean to startle you, Agent Doggett. I was just leaving for the night, and I, uh..." Doggett rises awkwardly behind the desk, unsure what to make of Skinner's non-explanatory explanation. Finally, he clears his throat and says, "Agent Scully isn't here, sir." Skinner continues to stand in the doorway, his heavy winter coat folded neatly over his arm, taking a cursory view of the office in front of him. "Sir, was there anything else?" Doggett inquires. He begins to feel as if Skinner is silently noting the changes to the office's organization. It's the same feeling he gets every time Scully comes into the office and finds him there. Skinner slowly steps into the office, mouth opening and closing, not sure of just what words to form. Finally, he asks. "How is...I mean, how do you think she's handling..." his voice trails off, finding the rest of the sentence rather unnecessary. "Well, I don't really know, sir." He pauses before continuing. "Agent Scully keeps a lot of things to herself. I'd guess she's doing as well as anyone..." It is now Doggett who finds the words unnecessary. Skinner nods to himself, not really looking at Doggett at all. "I just got a message from her that she isn't going to be in for a few days. I've tried to reach her on her cell phone, but there's no answer." Both men simply stand there in the office, unsure of the proper manner to attempt to discuss the obvious. Skinner takes note of Scully's research lying across the desk. He picks up the photo of the Fakir sitting vigil over his family and examines it. "How did you two figure out it was him?" "Well, sir, it was Agent Scully who made the connection. Damn if I could figure out how she knew to shoot him. I asked her and she said she just did what Agent Mulder would have done." Skinner feels the muscles in the back of his neck tense, as they usually do when signaling the onset of a headache. He rubs the spasm briefly, then straightens his glasses. He takes one more look around -- searching for what, Doggett hasn't a clue. Finally, Skinner puts on his overcoat and heads for the door. "Well. I just wanted to let you know you're on your own for a few days." He looks as though he's about to say something else, then changes his mind. He glances up at Doggett once more. "Good night, Agent Doggett." "Good night, sir." * * * * * The wisps of moonlight dance their way through window panes, landing on the newly scrubbed hardwood floor. No furniture, no books, nothing impeding their progress except for the hastily applied masking tape crisscrossing the length of the window. The streets of DC are curiously quiet tonight -- the slush covering the ground is slowly turning back into ice as the temperatures drop and winds rise. The empty apartment is still and practically silent. The only noise comes from a jiggling of the door as a key attempts to open a stubborn lock. A solitary figure enters, immediately closing and locking the door. There is seemingly nothing in this place that would invite visitors. Footsteps echo through the living room and into the kitchen. Steady hands reach out and pull off a loose corner of wooden trim running along the floorboards. A small and worn cherry box is dislodged from up inside the wall, pulled out, and placed on the floor. It is opened to reveal a gun. The figure settles down on the floor, awkwardly, back against the empty cabinets. A small cloth is pulled out of a coat pocket, placed on the floor and deliberately unfolded revealing six bullets. Each one is picked up between two black-leather-gloved fingers and slid into place in the open chamber, one after the other -- until the cloth sits empty. Unblinking, clear eyes finally and quickly close while the figure takes a shuddering breath. When they open again, the irises are small and steady, unwavering in their study of the now-loaded weapon in her hand. Scully sits alone in the darkness.