DECEMBER 10, 2000
11:28PM
WORCESTER, MA

He creeps silently through the shadows as he watches her
walk down the street, the darkness unrelieved by any
streetlight. She pulls her wool coat more tightly around
her as protection against both the fierce winter chill and
whatever night terrors she feels stalk her as she glances
around nervously. However, nothing interrupts the
nighttime stillness other than the creaking of old tree limbs
and the whoosh of the occasional passing car. The young
woman squares her shoulders and picks up her pace,
ignoring the mysterious rustlings and ominous shadows
that threaten to spook her.

Her observer keeps pace with her increased speed, where
possible angling to catch a glimpse of her face. He admires
its soft roundness, her pouty lips, and the narrow eyes that
reveal her Central Asian heritage. He smiles fondly at her,
knowing he will never let any harm come to her while he
watches. This has become his nightly ritual: playing
guardian angel to this woman.

The woman nears a run-down house from which loud
voices and raucous music spill. As she passes it, the three
young men loitering on the porch clatter down its steps,
leering and calling tauntingly to her. The one in the lead
matches his step to hers, his two cohorts falling in behind.
The woman refuses to acknowledge any of the trio, instead
quickening her step. Her self-appointed guardian sneaks
closer.

The lead ruffian throws his arm around the woman's
shoulder and, feigning concern, cautions her, "Hey,
sweetheart, you better let me walk you home. You should
be careful; you never know who you'll run into." His
henchmen snicker at his words.

She squirms away from his arm. "I'm fine. I can take care of
myself." She attempts to make her tone defiant, but a
tremor betrays her fear. The leader leans in towards her.
Her nerves at last get the better of her, and she races off.
The three hoodlums take off after her, her observer close
behind. The men grab hold of her shoulders and arms. She
begins shrieking, "Let me go! Let me go!" while twisting
and turning wildly, desperate to get free.

The leader forcibly turns her towards him and slaps her
across the face. "Shut up!" he snarls.

In the meantime, the watcher has caught up with the
struggling group. Furious, he grabs the leader who barely
has time to open his mouth before flying back from the
blows the angry man lands on his chin and stomach.

The woman's rescuer begins swinging at the two
remaining attackers, shouting, "Get away from her! Don't
touch her." They let go of the woman to square off against
him. She takes advantage of their momentary inattention to
swing her purse at one ruffian's head. Although the
handbag is too light to do much damage, she manages to
distract the dark-haired man while her guardian tackles his
fellow. He manages to wrestle his opponent to the ground
and starts pummeling him repeatedly. When the object of
his fury finally lapses into unconsciousness, he rises and
heads towards the woman.

"Tammi? Are you okay?" he asks nervously.

"Randall? Is that you?," she sniffs. "Omigod, Randall,
watch out!" she screams as the leader of the group rushes
up behind Randall, grabbing his shoulder and turning him
around. Randall's eyes catch on the shimmering metal in
the man's hand and he reaches out his hand too late to stop
the knife plunging into his gut. He grabs his belly and
sinks to the ground, faintly hearing the sound of sirens
over the pounding of his blood in his ears.

His attacker brandishes his knife at Tammi and growls at
her, "Don't say a word." He gathers up his buddies and
rushes off. Randall's vision gradually fades to black.

Across town, Dwight Cooper bolts upright in his bed. His
eyes fly open and he cries out in anguish, "Randyyyyyy!"

* * *

WORCESTER, MA
FEBRUARY 14, 2001
9:57PM

Dwight Cooper sneers as he senses the fear of his prey.
The man half walks, half jogs back to where Dwight knows
he has parked his car. "How does it feel now to be the one
hunted? The one running?" Dwight snarls under his
breath. He steps slightly out of the shadows, allowing his
target to catch a vague glimpse of him. He positions his
rifle in such a manner as to allow the streetlight to
illuminate its outline. The other man pales and begins
running, now angling slightly away from his car. Dwight
grins and follows suit.

He keeps pace with his victim, drawing out the panic the
man must feel. He quickly realizes where the man is
heading. "You think they can protect you?" he taunts too
quietly for the man to hear. He is never cruel when
exterminating the rats and other vermin he encounters in
his job, but this man is evil. A blight that kills with no
conscience. So Dwight allows the other man a moment to
believe he is safe, to dart into the brightly-lit police station
in front of them thinking he has found a haven.

Dwight pauses in front of the station, melting into the tall
hedges surrounding it. He raises the rifle to his shoulder
and takes aim at the wall. He focuses on the concrete and
suddenly he can see into the station as clearly as if the
cement blocks had simply vanished. He takes a brief
second to marvel at his new powers of sight. For his entire
life the world has been a blur; now nothing is invisible to
him. His face tightens with resolve, and he pulls the
trigger.

* * *

POLICE STATION
WORCESTER, MA
FEBRUARY 15, 2001
10:02AM

No matter which part of the country he visits, there's
always a certain sameness to a police station. Doggett
smiles slightly as he glances around at the familiar bustle
and conversation surrounding the local cops. He currently
perches on a standard-issue cheap black plastic chair and
sips at the painfully familiar thick black liquid that no self-
respecting yuppie would consider coffee, but which he has
in the past sucked down like water. A stray memory
passes through his brain, a reference to a "black oil" that he
read about in the X-Files. He idly wonders if it bears any
resemblance to the sludge sloshing around in his cup. He
suppresses a grin at the thought of his coffee rising out of
its container to take over his body. Heck, it shouldn't
bother; he's already its slave. He wants to share his joke,
but figures that Scully would not appreciate the reminder
of an ordeal Mulder once underwent, and no one else here
would understand the reference.

He sneaks a glance at his partner, who sits stiffly beside
him. Her posture radiates constant vigilance, her eyes
darting nervously around the station, assessing each
person for their potential threat value. Ever since her
return from Oregon a couple of weeks ago, her already
keen sense of paranoia has only heightened. He knows she
fears for the safety of her child, but she refuses to share her
concerns with him. Instead, he looks on helplessly as she
retreats into herself, worry lines gradually etching
themselves onto her face. Sometimes he wishes that he
could take the same leap of faith that she and Skinner have
and become a believer as well. Maybe this would give him
the magic key to her trust, to becoming a true partner to
her rather than the bumbling hanger-on he often feels like.

He notices her attention snapping to their right, and he
looks up to see a blocky, fortyish man with dark hair and a
mustache weaving his way purposefully towards them.
The two agents rise as he nears them. "Agents Scully and
Doggett?" The two nod and in turn shake his outstretched
hand. The man surreptitiously eyes Scully's stomach for a
moment, but quickly moves on. "Glad to meet you. Sorry
to keep you waiting. I'm Detective Ron Kaplan. I was in
the station when Carlson got shot, and I've been heading
up the investigation into his murder."

Scully takes charge with her usual briskness. "Great. You
can show us where the shooting took place while you give
us your take on what happened."

"If you'll just follow me." Kaplan heads off through the
bullpen, still talking. "You may have noticed when you
came in that we've had to close off our main entrance.
Yesterday night, Carly comes running in..."

"Carly?" Doggett interrupts. "You know this guy?" The
three of them reach the foyer and stop. A tape outline on
the floor marks the position of the deceased. Doggett notes
that even here in the station the officers have put up the
standard, yellow crime-scene tape.

"Yeah, Carly, a.k.a. Herbert Carlson, was one of our
regulars," Kaplan replies, his tone a cross between sarcasm
and resignation. "Nasty little bastard. Had his fingers in a
lot of pies: drugs, armed robbery, extortion. We've been
able to nail him in the past on some of the minor stuff, but
we've never been able to pin anything big on him.
Anyway, he's managed to piss a lot of people off. The one
thing we don't lack in this case is suspects."

Doggett notices that Scully has drifted to the other end of
the room and is currently eyeing a bullet hole in the wall.
He turns his attention back to the detective and asks,
"What have you got for eyewitnesses or forensic
evidence?"

Kaplan frowns in annoyance. "Look, Agent Doggett, if we
had something to work with, we wouldn't need you here.
My captain may love the idea of feds who investigate the
paranormal, but I need a little more convincing." He
gestures at Doggett, "So dazzle me."

Doggett raises his hands in a placating manner. "Sorry. I
didn't mean to imply any criticism. I'm just trying to get a
feel for the case. Besides, if you want the paranormal
explanation, you'll need to talk to Agent Scully." He
glances over his shoulder just in time to see Scully
heading outside. "I'm the straight man in the partnership,
so to speak."

The mention of Scully seems to provide Kaplan with an
opening. "Should she be out in the field like that?"

"Like what?" Doggett raises his eyebrows. "You mean
pregnant?" Kaplan nods sheepishly. Doggett shrugs, "It's
her call. You know how dull most law enforcement work
is." The two roll their eyes in commiseration, and Doggett
continues, "She's still able to do forensic work, question
witnesses, that sort of thing. Agent Scully's a good
investigator. I'm glad to have her around as long as she's
able to work." Kaplan mutters something noncommittal,
and Doggett wonders if he's convinced the detective or
not. "Anyway, you were describing what happened..."

"Oh, yeah. So it's about 10 PM last night. Carlson runs in
the door screaming his head off." Kaplan waves his arms
around in parody of the dead man. "'He's after me. You
gotta stop him, he's after me.' That sort of thing. Some of us
make our way to the foyer, trying to see what's going on.
Suddenly we hear a shot and Carlson keels over. A couple
of us run outside, but there isn't anyone there. No
passersby. Nothing. The duty officer, Murray, was the one
who noticed the bullet hole in the wall. Funny thing is,
judging by the trajectory, there's no way the shooter could
have seen Carlson at all."

"What about some sort of infrared equipment?"

"Won't work through a foot of concrete."

"A foot of concrete?" Doggett repeats disbelievingly. "How
the hell did a bullet get through that?"

Kaplan smirks slightly, "Isn't that what you're supposed to
be telling us?"

Scully walks up to rejoin them as Doggett asks, "Okay, so
you mentioned suspects. Who have you got?"

"Well, like I said, Carly's pissed a lot of people off.
Someone's been systematically taking out his gang over
the past six weeks. Always a single shot to the head, same
caliber weapon as was used to shoot Carly. We figured a
rival gang's trying to move in, but no one's talking. Now
we get this." Kaplan gestures to encompass the room
they're in. "We've been compiling a list of anyone who
might have a grievance. Other thugs, victims of crimes we
couldn't get him for, that sort of thing. I've got a stack this
high on my desk." He holds his hands about a foot apart.

Scully finally enters the conversation. "We'd like to see any
notes you have. And we're willing to pitch in to interview
possible suspects."

Kaplan looks relieved and smiles broadly. "Well, we
could certainly use the help. Step this way and I'll set you
up." He heads off, Scully and Doggett in tow.

* * *

SUREKILL EXTERMINATION AGENCY
4:43PM

Doggett parks on the street next to a dingy gray building.
A fading sign stuck in a tiny patch of yard identifies the
place as 'Surekill Extermination Agency'. "Who are we
talking to here?" he asks Scully, who sits in the passenger
seat rummaging through file folders.

"Umm, Tammi Peyton." She finds the folder she was
looking for and opens it. "Age 25. Associates Degree in
Accounting from Quinsigamond Community College here
in Worcester. Employed as an accountant by 'Surekill,'"
Scully grimaces at the name, "for 3 years. She was attacked
on December 10th by three men. Her co-worker Randall
Cooper showed up on the scene to defend her and was
stabbed by a man Tammi identified in a line-up as Herbert
Carlson. However, the police were unable to find any
corroborating evidence so the case never went to trial. Both
Tammi Peyton and Dwight Cooper, Randall's twin brother
and the owner of this place, are noted here as having been
exceedingly bitter about the decision."

"So how come we're not also checking out Dwight
Cooper?"

"The file doesn't say anything other than he isn't
considered a suspect. We can check him out while we're in
there." Scully leans her head back, letting her exhaustion
show. Doggett has noticed that Scully tires more easily
these days. He begins to plot ways to convince Scully to
call it a day after this interview. His partner awkwardly
clambers out of the car, but Doggett refrains from
attempting to help her, knowing from past experience his
assistance is not appreciated.

Inside, a thirty-something man of average height and build
with short, curly brown hair scrabbles through the papers
on a battered metal desk. One at a time he picks up a piece
of paper and holds it about an inch from his nose,
squinting at it through his thick glasses. Doggett leans
down to whisper in Scully's ear, "Assuming that's Dwight
Cooper, I can see why the local PD eliminated him as a
possibility for our sharpshooter." Scully gives him a tight,
half smile in acknowledgement of his comment.

Without looking up at them, the man bellows, "Tammi!
Where's the receipt for the Cochran account?" He finally
turns around as the two agents walk closer.

Scully steps forward and asks, "Are you Mr. Dwight
Cooper?"

The man furtively wipes his hands on his jeans, then holds
out his right hand to Scully. "Yeah, I'm Dwight. How can I
help you folks today? Rat problems? Mice? Cockroaches?"

"Actually, sir, I'm Special Agent Dana Scully with the FBI.
This is my partner, Agent Doggett." She gestures towards
Doggett who begins to pull out his ID before belatedly
realizing that Dwight won't be able to read it. "We're
investigating the murder of Herbert Carlson. Is there
anywhere we can talk?"

Dwight suddenly looks nervous. "What are you doing
here? You think I had something to do with this? Look, as
much as I would've liked to have been the guy to do him,
these," he points to his eyes, "are kind of a problem."

Doggett does his best to project his most reassuring
demeanor. "You're not a suspect, sir, we just want to ask a
few questions. Standard procedure. You know." He smiles
as if sharing a confidence with Dwight.

Dwight appears only slightly mollified, but he nods and
says, "Fine. I've got an office over this way." He grabs the
back of the rolling chair next to him and pushes it towards
a door in the right wall of the room. It squeaks and shakes
as it trundles along. Inside his office he positions it next to
a green vinyl kitchen chair. He takes a seat behind his
desk. The surface is almost completely bare except for an
antiquated beige computer monitor and keyboard.
Doggett sits gingerly on the green chair, which teeters
beneath him, while Scully eases herself down onto the seat
next to him.

Scully barely waits for everyone to get settled before
launching into the interrogation. "Mr. Cooper, we're
actually here to talk to your employee, Tammi Peyton."

Dwight instantly reacts, glaring at Scully and growling,
"What are you bothering Tammi for? That bastard attacked
her. She's the victim here."

"Mr. Cooper, we're not singling out Tammi," Scully
soothes, "however, our job does require us to talk to
anyone who had some sort of grievance against Mr.
Carlson."

"In other words, half of Worcester," Doggett jokes, trying to
put Dwight at ease. He gets a wry chuckle in return from
the exterminator.

"Look, Tammi was with me last night. We're, um, seeing
each other. I know in a big company that would be
considered sexual harassment or something, but here it's
just the three, um, I mean two of us." His face drops at the
reminder of his brother's absence.

The sound of the front door opening filters through to the
office and a woman's voice calls out, "Dwight? Sorry I'm
late getting back. Mrs. McAllister wouldn't stop talking." A
young woman strolls into the office, then jumps back
slightly when she spots Scully and Doggett. "Oh, sorry. I
didn't realize you had customers." She turns around to
leave, but Dwight stops her before she can exit.

"Wait, Tammi. These are agents from the FBI. They're here
to ask us questions about Carlson's murder. Apparently
this is just routine. Just go ahead and answer their
questions." Doggett is struck by the way Dwight gazes
intently into Tammi's eyes with his last sentence.

Tammi smiles nervously at the agents and asks, "Can I get
you something? Coffee? Water?"

Scully replies, "Water would be great for me. Just give us a
few minutes to finish up here, then we'll be ready to talk to
you." Tammi departs in search of the beverage. The two
agents ply Dwight for more information about his
activities of the previous evening. After a few routine
questions, Scully and Doggett gratefully get up from their
uncomfortable chairs and head out of the office. Out of the
corner of his eye, Doggett notices a locked gun cabinet
with several rifles.

"Whose guns are those?" he asks, tilting his head towards
the case.

"Randy's," Dwight responds sadly. "He loved to go
shooting with his buddies."

"So he was a hunter?"

"Nah, not Randy. He was too softhearted. He just liked to
target-practice." Dwight smiles fondly at the memory. "I
always thought we were in some kind of cosmic balance.
Randy had a really keen eye -- he was a great shot, while I
can't see anything further away than six inches. On the
other hand, I got the brains of the family, such as they are,
while, Randy, he was what I'd guess you'd call a little
slow."

Tammi returns with a styrofoam cup that she hands to
Scully and chimes in, "Randall was a sweetheart. He used
to sneak me flowers from customers' gardens. I was the
only one that called him by his full name. He seemed to
like that."  Both Tammi and Dwight stare at the floor,
caught up in their reminiscences.

Dwight finally breaks the silence, announcing, "Look, I've
got to check out some of the equipment out back. You go
ahead and talk to Tammi. If you need anything else, let me
know." The agents thank him. Doggett hands him a
business card and delivers his usual spiel asking the
interviewee to contact him if he thinks of anything else.
Dwight pockets the card and heads out through a door at
the rear of the room.

Tammi quickly confirms Dwight's claim that they spent the
previous night together. After a few general questions, the
agents head out to the car.

They fasten their seatbelts, but before he starts the car,
Doggett turns to Scully and asks, "Is it just me or has
someone there been exterminating something other than
rats? I think Tammi's our killer and Dwight's covering up
for her."

Scully looks thoughtful. "I don't know. I got a vibe from
them as well, but I just can't get Dwight's statement about
'cosmic balance' out of my mind. He mentioned Randall's
keen vision, and we are looking for a killer who can
apparently see through walls..."

"But Randall's dead and Dwight's practically blind as a
bat," Doggett objects. "Or are you claiming it's another
revenge-from-beyond-the-grave type deal like in Idaho."

"No, not exactly," Scully answers uncertainly, "but we may
have something similar going on here. What if Randall's
somehow acting as Dwight's eyes?"

"How?"

"I don't know. I don't even know if I'm on the right track."

"Listen, I know you're sick of hearing me say this, but I
don't think there's any point in making more of this than
there is. We find the killer, then we find the means. I say
we lean on Tammi."

"Fine. You do that. I'm going to dig further into the
Coopers' background."

She furrows her brow in thought and Doggett imagines he
can see her brain already formulating possible avenues of
investigation. He remembers his earlier decision and tells
her, "Okay, but you'll do it tomorrow." Scully glares at him
and opens her mouth, ready to tear into him for his high-
handed statement. Doggett hastily adds with a smile, "Me
and the kid are hungry."

Scully asks him suspiciously, "You're not using the baby
to try to get around me, are you?"

"Nah. I'm just looking for an ally," he quips. Scully relaxes
enough to grace him with one of her rare half smiles.
Grinning, Doggett starts the car and drives off.

* * *

Tammi peeks furtively through the peephole of the front
door until she sees the agents drive off. She rushes into the
back room to see Dwight calmly tinkering with some
machinery. "They were talking for a long time in the car
before they drove off, Dwight," she relates with agitation.
"Do you think they suspect something?"

Dwight wipes off his hands with a rag and walks up to her.
He begins to run his hands up and down her shoulders in
a reassuring gesture. "I doubt they suspect a thing. We're
law-abiding citizens. We've got an alibi. And even if they
do think we did it, so what? They can't prove anything.
God knows the cops in this town won't get off their asses
to arrest someone without a signed confession."

"But these aren't just cops; they're FBI agents."

Dwight shrugs, "Better clothes, same attitude. Don't you
worry, honey, I'm going to take care of you. Starting
tonight, things are gonna get a lot better for us."

Tammi steps away from Dwight, forcing him to drop his
hands. "Why?" she demands. "What's happening tonight?"

Dwight grins, "Let's just say that I'm the new Robin Hood
around here, and we're the poor."

"You're not gonna hurt anybody Dwight, are you? I
thought once Carlson was dead that this would all be
over."

"Tam, you're the one who convinced me that these flashes
of vision I was getting were a sign from Randy, that it
meant we should take revenge against his killers."

"But we've done that, Dwight. We're finished. Let's just go
back to normal?"

"Back to what?" Dwight laughs bitterly. "Killing bugs for a
living? Not being able to afford anything better than
second-hand furniture and a rusting truck? We deserve
better, Tammi. I wanna do better for you. You were right.
This is a gift from Randy. I can see through anything:
walls, book covers, your skirt..." He winks at her lewdly
and she glares at him. "He wants us to use it to help
ourselves."

"But what about the people we hurt?"

"He's been helping with that, too. How else do you think
I'm able to shoot bullets through walls and still hit the
target? They're the bad guys, Tam. Scum. We're doing a
public service by getting rid of them. Trust me, babe, this
is the right thing. C'mon, grab your coat. I'll take you out to
dinner."

Tammi allows Dwight to help her into her coat and bustle
her out the door, but she is unable to shake the deep sense
of unease the conversation has provoked.

* * *

COMFORT INN
WORCESTER, MA
11:19PM

Doggett tosses and turns, finally throwing aside his
blankets in frustration. He sits up and turns on the light
fixture on the wall above his bed. He squints against the
light as he fumbles for his cell phone on the bedside table.
He thumbs through his electronic address book,
eventually selecting a number to dial.

A cheerful woman's voice greets him, "Hello?"

"Monica? It's John Doggett."

"John?" She sounds concerned suddenly. "What's up? Is
everything all right?"

"Yeah, everything's fine," Doggett hastily assures her. "I
just...." He pauses, unsure exactly what prompted him to
call her. "I guess I just needed to talk to someone who
doesn't call me by my last name." He winces internally,
realizing as he says this just how pathetic he sounds.

Fortunately Monica chooses to overlook his
embarrassment and jokes with him, "And here I thought
you considered my informality one of my least attractive
qualities."

Doggett smiles and manages to tease her in return, "Only
when you spend more time chatting with witnesses than
interrogating them."

"It's all part of my training. I know you're an old-fashioned
kind of guy, John, but I would have thought the good
cop/bad cop routine had been around long enough for
even you to accept it."

"Somehow I don't think the Bureau had recipe-swapping
in mind."

"Those were herbal remedies," Reyes protests, "And I
wouldn't scoff if I were you. You should really look into
the benefits of St. John's wort. I think it would help you..."

"Monica...," Doggett cuts her off, an undercurrent of
warning in his voice.

"I know, I know. So tell me John," her voice turns more
serious, "how are you doing?"

Doggett sighs. "I'm muddling through. I gotta tell you
though, Monica, I'd feel a lot better if I knew what the hell
I'm doing. Set me on the trail of a fugitive, and I'll get my
man. I'm not so good when it comes to vengeful
apparitions and Indian Fakirs. Now Agent Scully thinks
we've got a guy communicating with his dead twin."

"How is Dana doing?"

"Better not let her catch you calling her that," Doggett
cracks, then continues, "It's hard to say how she's doing.
She keeps her cards close to the chest. She insists on
working, but I worry about the toll it's taking on her, and
her baby."

"She has a baby?"

"She's pregnant, almost six months along."

"Is Mulder the father?" Monica whispers.

"She hasn't said. But since there don't seem to be any other
candidates..."

"Poor Dana. I sensed there was more between them than
just partnership." A heavy silence hangs between them.
Finally Monica speaks in an obvious attempt to lighten the
conversation. "So, John, tell me about your 'twins' case."

Doggett outlines the salient details of the case to her. "You
know," Monica adopts a lecturing tone, "twins are often
associated with paranormal phenomena. There have been
studies in which twins who were separated at birth
nonetheless sensed things about each other that they had
no way of knowing."

"I always thought that kind of thing was just coincidence."

"Well, there's also examples of mystical twins throughout
history: Romulus and Remus, who founded Rome; Castor
and Pollux, who were placed as stars in the sky when the
mortal brother, Castor, died; the Mayan Xbalanque, who
was able to reanimate his twin brother, Hunahpu, when
the latter was decapitated. I could go on and on."

"Well, our twin doesn't seem to have the ability to bring
his brother back from the dead."

"What if he does?" Monica begins to talk more animatedly,
"I don't mean physically, but spiritually. What if Randall
Cooper's spirit is now residing in his brother's body,
giving Dwight his twin's abilities?"

Doggett chuffs, "Sounds like you should be the one on the
X-Files, not me. I know you've said you like to keep an
open mind, but I didn't really think you bought into all
this stuff."

"I enjoy playing with ideas. I can't say if I'm right or wrong
until you find more evidence, but it's an interesting
thought."

"Well, I'm still gonna go with my completely human, non-
paranormal shooter theory."

"Someday I'll convert you," Monica teases him.

Doggett smiles, enjoying their back and forth. "Well, I
doubt this will be the last time I call asking for your input,
so you'll have plenty of opportunity."

He starts to worry when Monica fails to reply. Finally she
says hesitantly, "John? You know you can call me if you
need anything." She continues more strongly, "Anything at
all. No questions asked. Just let me know and I'll be there."

Doggett is briefly overwhelmed by her offer. He is
eventually able to get out, "Thanks. I really appreciate that.
Thanks." He pauses for a moment. "Um, I should probably
let you get to bed. It's getting late. Thanks for letting me
bend you ear."

"No problem. Goodnight, John."

Doggett hangs up, feelingly unexpectedly comforted by
their conversation. He slides back under his covers and
quickly falls asleep.

* * *

JAMISON RESIDENCE
FEBRUARY 16, 2001
10:47AM

Scully pauses on the walkway to the cheerful yellow
cottage to smile at the family of snowmen on the lawn. A
bright green and gold knit snow hat drapes half off the
head of the shortest one. Scully imagines that someone
was rooting for the runt of the litter and gave him the hat
to make him stand out. She proceeds up the walk and
knocks on the navy blue door. She has to wait only a few
seconds before an elderly lady opens it.

"Can I help you?" she asks, giving Scully an evaluating
stare.

"Mrs. Jamison, I'm Special Agent Dana Scully. I'm here to
ask you a few questions about one of your neighbors,
Dwight Cooper. Do you have a few minutes?" Reflexively,
Scully pulls her ID from her coat and shows it to the
woman. Mrs. Jamison takes it from Scully's hand and
glances back and forth between it and Scully several times
in order to reassure herself that Scully is who she claims to
be. She returns the badge and backs into the house.

"Come on in. Sit yourself down." She bustles around
making sure the agent is settled. Scully inwardly fumes,
but doesn't allow her frustration to show. She hates the
fuss she's been receiving since her pregnancy became
obvious, but she equally dislikes being rude to well-
meaning people. Finally, after bombarding her with throw
pillows and offers of refreshments, Mrs. Jamison
apparently decides Scully is comfortable enough and
returns to the purpose of Scully's visit.

"What's this about Dwight? Is there a problem?" The older
woman simultaneously projects an air of concern and avid
curiosity.

Scully smiles at her reassuringly. "I'm afraid I'm not at
liberty to say right now, ma'am. I'd just like you to tell me
what you know about Dwight, what kind of person he is."

Mrs. Jamison rolls her eyes, "Gawd, I've known Dwight
Cooper for years, he was one of my students at Burncoat
High. He and his brother Randy. Randy was a good kid,
but Dwight was always into some sort of mischief. That
girl of his, Tammi, seems to have straightened him out,
though. He's been a good neighbor ever since he moved to
this area a couple years ago." Scully relaxes on the couch,
realizing that Mrs. Jamison will probably continue
gossiping for a while. The woman fits the stereotype of a
retired schoolmarm: frumpy clothing, gray hair pulled
back in a bun, glasses with black plastic frames. Scully
wonders when the inevitable cat will arrive.

The older woman prattles on, "I'm afraid Dwight wasn't a
very good influence on Randy, though. I caught them
cheating once, though to this day I don't know how they
did it. Randy was the one passing notes to Dwight
although, I hate to speak ill of the dead, he wasn't exactly a
rocket scientist. He sat right in front of me. Dwight was on
one side of him and Jenny Perkins was on the other. That
girl spent more time ogling Sean McDougall than she did
reading a textbook. 'Course he never noticed her; she
ended up marrying Mario Benvenuto right out of high
school. I'm glad I retired before I had to teach her daughter
-- I heard she was a hellion. Sean McDougall, he was a
smart boy. He's a lawyer in Boston, now. I still get letters
from him occasionally. Nobody writes letters any more
these days. It's all email."

Scully, lulled into a trance by Mrs. Jamison's chatter,
rouses herself and cuts the woman off, "I'm sorry to be
rude, Mrs. Jamison, but you were saying something about
Dwight and Randall cheating? Couldn't Randall have
simply seen the answers on your desk?"

"Not unless he could see through wood. I kept all my
answer keys locked up in my desk drawer. Took them
home with me after school each day, too. I taught long
enough that I picked up all the tricks the kids use." She
rolls her eyes, "Some teachers used the same tests every
year and then were shocked to discover kids were actually
passing around answer sheets. Sometimes teaching is a lot
like playing chess; you've got to outsmart your opponent.
Don't you think?"

Scully frantically searches for a reply but is saved by
movement in the doorway to the living room. A furry,
whiskered nose pokes past the doorframe. Scully smiles
inwardly at the confirmation of her assumption. Her
stomach blocks her from bending over, so she awkwardly
leans over to one side, holding out her hand for the animal
to smell. She startles when the pet bounds towards her,
sniffing cautiously, long ears twitching. She looks up from
the rabbit to see Mrs. Jamison grinning at her.

"People always assume school teachers have cats." She
winks at Scully knowingly.

* * *

WORCESTER POLICE STATION
11:28AM

"You really think she's the one that got Carly?"

Doggett looks up to see Detective Kaplan craning his neck
to look at the file Doggett's reading. Doggett leans back in
his chair to get a more comfortable view of the cop. "It's
hard to say. I think she's involved, possibly in cahoots with
her boyfriend, Dwight Cooper."

"The blind guy?" Kaplan asks incredulously.

Doggett shrugs. "He's not completely blind, but that's
beside the point." He gazes at the detective earnestly.
"Look, my gut is telling me that these are our guys. I can't
prove anything yet, but I've called Tammi Peyton down
here to talk. I'm hoping if I lean on her, she'll reveal
something."

Kaplan looks unconvinced. "What does your partner think
about this? Where is she, by the way?"

"She's out interviewing people. She's got an idea she's
looking into."

"What sort of idea?"

Doggett desperately wishes he had kept his mouth closed.
He squirms slightly in his seat, unable to directly face
Kaplan. "Randall Cooper apparently possessed
exceptionally keen sight. Agent Scully thinks it possible
that, um, that somehow Dwight inherited this ability upon
Randall's death."

Kaplan stares at him, then gives a short laugh. "Right. I can
just see this guy's will now." He speaks in a singsong
voice, "'And to my brother I leave my money, my gun
collection, and my exceptionally keen sight.'" His voice
returns to normal, "What the hell kind of crap is that? Do
you really believe it?"

Doggett pauses for a moment, trying to think up a
diplomatic answer. "I can't say as how I think it's likely,
but in the time I've been with the X-Files, I've seen some
pretty weird stuff." He suddenly feels like he's channeling
a less articulate version of his partner. Is this how Scully
felt all these years, trying both to preserve her dignity and
support Mulder? Kaplan's response proves he hasn't
managed to achieve either goal.

"Well, that was a definitive answer," he scoffs. "Does this
guy have super-sight or not?"

"That's what I'm hoping Tammi will tell us," Doggett
replies, unwilling to let the detective rattle him.

The arrival of a uniformed cop forestalls the detective from
replying. "Agent Doggett, Tammi Peyton is here."

Kaplan responds for Doggett, "Send her to Room 3, Hal."
He looks at Doggett and smirks, "I think I'd like to sit in on
this interrogation."

"Be my guest," Doggett replies and stands to follow
Kaplan. He watches the young cop leave to fetch Tammi as
he and Kaplan make their way to a hallway lined with
doors. Kaplan selects one and they enter a drab room with
olive-painted concrete walls. They settle themselves at one
side of a battered wooden table just in time for an uneasy
Tammi to enter the room.

"Ms. Peyton, this is Detective Kaplan." The two shake
hands and Doggett invites her to "Please, take a seat."
Tammi hesitantly sits down on the wooden chair and
places her fidgeting hands in her lap.

"Should I have a lawyer or something?" she asks in a quiet
voice.

"Is there some reason you need one?" Doggett replies.

Tammi glares defiantly at him, "Hey! I didn't do anything
wrong. I don't have to be here." She begins to rise from her
chair.

"Fine." Doggett's response freezes her. "Then you shouldn't
have any problem with answering our questions." He
offers her his best harmless smile and she reluctantly
lowers herself back to her seat.

Doggett mentally reviews his options and decides to start
out with a softball pitch. "Ms. Peyton, where were you at
about 10pm on Wednesday."

"I already told you," she snips. "I was with Dwight. It was
Valentine's Day. He took me out to dinner, then we went
back to his place to um, ..." She trails off and blushes.

"Can anyone verify your whereabouts?"

"I'm not into three-ways, Agent Doggett," she tells him
sarcastically. In his corner, Kaplan chortles in appreciation
of her comment.

"All right," Doggett continues, "How about the restaurant
you were eating at? Can anyone there confirm your
statement?"

"Dwight paid by credit card. We went to 'Day Lilies'. You
can check that, right?" Tammi is beginning to regain her
confidence as she answers Doggett's questions.

"So you went to the restaurant," Doggett reiterates. "Then
what? Did you go straight home?"

Tammi shakes her head. "We went to the park. Dwight's
been studying the constellations lately; he pointed some
out to me."

"Star-gazing's an interesting hobby for a guy who can't
read without a magnifying glass," Doggett comments
wryly. Tammi pales at his statement. Kaplan glances at
him curiously but doesn't intervene.

"He, uh, can kind of make out the stars," she stammers.
"And, um, he would describe the constellations to me, and,
you know, tell me stories about them."

Doggett mulls over her statement in the back of his mind,
wondering if she has slipped up or if she's telling the
truth. He proceeds with another line of questioning. "Do
you own any guns, Ms. Peyton?"

"No."

"Do you know how to shoot one?"

"No way. I hate guns," she asserts.

"What about the guns at the office. You had access to
those."

"Those were Randall's guns. I never touched them." She
answers each question with certainty and Doggett's
confidence that she is the shooter fades slightly.

"What were guns doing being stored in an office where
anyone could get to them?"

"They were locked up," Tammi protests. "Randall lived in
a room above the office. He didn't have much storage
space, so he kept some things downstairs."

"How about Dwight," Doggett persists. "Did he shoot?"

Tammi scoffs. "Dwight couldn't even see the target."

Doggett decides to take a leap and try out Monica's theory.
"Is that why he needs Randall to act as his eyes?" He leans
forward and gazes at Tammi intensely. He lowers his
voice slightly, "Tell me, Tammi, since Randy died has
Dwight suddenly been able to see?"

Tammi pales in shock and Doggett knows he has scored a
hit. He feels a surge of triumph. "N...n...no," Tammi
stutters. "Randall is dead and Dwight's still as near-sighted
as he ever was." However, her voice lacks conviction.

Doggett presses forward with his interrogation, eager to
exploit his advantage. However, after her initial collapse,
Tammi's resolve stiffens. Several hours pass with no
further breakthroughs, so he reluctantly allows her to
return home.

* * *

SUREKILL EXTERMINATION AGENCY
4:56PM

Dwight Cooper spins around as he hears the door slam
against the wall. He recognizes the pattern of footsteps
before he is able to make out any distinguishing
characteristics in the human-shaped blur that approaches
him. "Where the hell have you been, Tammi?" he growls.
"I've been trying to reach you all day." He winces
internally when she recoils from him.

"Sorry to inconvenience you, Dwight." Her voice is cold,
but he can tell that she is on the verge of tears. "I've been
down at the police station facing the Inquisition."

Dwight squelches the fear that momentarily sweeps over
him. "Why? What were they asking about? You didn't do
anything."

She runs to Dwight, slides her arms around his back, and
starts sobbing. He immediately wraps one arm around her
and uses his other hand to stroke the hair at her temple.
His words of comfort are absently delivered as he
processes this new information. She finally pushes away
from him and sits at her desk chair. She wraps her arms
around her shoulders and breathes deeply to calm her
sniffles. "I'm sorry, Dwight," she stammers out. "You know
I'm not usually like this."

He does know, and he worries about her increasing
fragility. He sits on the desk and reaches out to knead her
shoulder. "Look, Tam, it's gonna be all right," he soothes.
"As long as we stick together, they've got nothing on us."

"You don't understand, Dwight," she insists. "They know."
She then tells Dwight about her interview with Doggett.
Dwight shuts his eyes in disbelief and wills himself not to
panic.

"Okay." He takes a breath. "I admit that's not good. But
what can they do about it? If they really had something,
they would have arrested you, or even both of us. So what
if this guy suspects us? Who's going to believe him? I have
a hard enough time believing that when I want to, I can
SEE." He forces a smile and grabs Tammi's hand. She
relaxes enough to hold hands with him. "C'mon. I've got
something to show you." He tugs on her hands to coax her
out of her seat, then leads her to his office. "All right, now.
Sit down and close your eyes." He settles her in a seat, and
she obediently squinches her eyes shut. He fishes
something out of his desk drawer and drops it in Tammi's
outstretched hands.

"Can I look now?" she teases.

Dwight smiles and tells her, "Go ahead." She squeals and
claps her hands, imitating a small child.

"Oh, goody." She rips the purple and silver striped paper
off of a thin, rectangular box. She tosses off the lid and
paws through the tissue paper, triumphantly retrieving a
couple of pieces of paper. "Tickets for a Mediterranean
cruise?" she gasps. Dwight takes her surprise for pleasure.

"You've always wanted to go somewhere with a sense of
history. Think of it: Greece, Rome..."

"Dwight, how the hell could you afford this?" The
suspicion in her voice indicates that she already knows the
answer to her question. "Did you kill someone for this?"

Dwight can't bring himself to directly admit his crime.
"Tammi," he wheedles, "they were drug dealers. They
preyed on other people. I did the world a favor, and if we
profit by that a little, well, where's the harm?"

"I can't believe you would ask that," she replies stiffly.
"Besides, what about the cops?"

"I'll stay low for a while, until this whole thing blows
over." He leans forward, willing Tammi to be convinced.
"I'm not greedy, Tam. I'll do a couple of jobs, just enough
to make us comfortable, then we'll blow this town. You've
always talked about how much you hate Worcester."

"Don't you go blaming this on me," she snaps. "I never
asked you to kill anyone for me."

"How quickly we forget," Dwight snarls in response.
"You're the one who persuaded me to go after those guys
that attacked you. 'They don't deserve any mercy,
Dwight'," he mimics her in a falsetto. "It's a little late to be
squeamish."

Tammi stands up stiffly. "I won't be a part of this." She
shoves the box and tickets into Dwight's hands and storms
to the door. Dwight quickly drops the items onto the desk
and follows after her, grabbing her arm.

"Don't leave me, Tammi," he begs desperately. "I'm sorry,
I'll cut it out for now. Just go home, relax. We'll both calm
down, then we'll talk again later. Okay?" He gazes
hopefully at her.

Tammi doesn't answer for a moment. She then nods and
says, "Okay, Dwight." He can tell she's still unhappy, but
he lets go of her arm and watches her as she leaves the
building.

He sits behind his desk and lays his face in his hands,
thoughts whirling furiously. After about fifteen minutes,
he pulls his wallet out of his back pocket and rifles
through it. He thoughtfully fingers a white business card,
then concentrates on it, willing the tiny numbers into
focus. He picks up the telephone receiver and begins to
dial. After a couple of rings, a male voice answers
"Doggett."

Dwight forces his voice into a wispy tenor, "Agent
Doggett, you gotta help me, please. He's gonna get me. I
can hear him."

"Who is this?" the agent demands. "Where are you? Who's
after you?"

"I don't know who he is, but he's got a gun. I don't wanna
end up like the others. I'm at the old 'Tahoe' club on
Gulden Ave. Oh, God! I can hear him!" Dwight quickly
hangs up and stares grimly at the receiver in his hand. He
sighs deeply and stands up.

He makes his way into a dingy bathroom. He washes his
hands thoroughly then splashes water onto his face.
Peering into the mirror, he steps back in shock as he sees
his brother's face staring back out at him. "Randy?" he
breathes. He raises his hand to trace the outline of his
brother's profile. His fingers tremble as he takes in the pain
in Randy's expression.

His brother's lips shape a phrase, "Please stop." Dwight
shakes his head slowly at the mirror.

"I'm sorry Randy," he whispers, "but I've got to do this." He
flicks off the light switch.

* * *

BLUEBONNET DINER
WORCESTER, MA
5:43PM

Doggett trudges wearily into the diner near the police
station where he has agreed to meet Scully for dinner and
an exchange of information. He notices her in a booth,
scanning the laminated menu, and plops down in the seat
across from her.

"Tough day?" She raises an eyebrow at him.

"I thought I had Tammi, but she turned out to be a harder
nut to crack than I expected," admits Doggett. "I hope you
had better luck than I did."

"I'm not sure what use this is, but I did hear some
interesting things today."

"So, spill," Doggett urges her.

"Almost everyone I talked to about Randy had some sort
of spooky," she frowns at the adjective, "story to tell about
him. He was able to read test answers off an answer key
locked in a desk, he once told a neighbor where she had
left her keys just by looking at her house, he stopped a
friend from almost shooting a dog when he heard some
rustling in dense underbrush. I have story after story here
in my notes. If this is true, it's a completely incredible
phenomenon." An air of excitement partially crowds out
her recent gloom.

"So you still believe that somehow Randy was able to pass
along this gift to Dwight, assuming that this gift exists at
all?"

Scully's enthusiasm deflates and she retreats into her
customary formality. "I don't have any scientific evidence
to support this idea, true, but right now it's the best theory
I have that fits all of the available facts."

Doggett's phone rings and he hastens to answer it.
"Doggett," he barks. He hmms a couple of times and grabs
a pen from his suit jacket to scribble something on a
nearby paper napkin.

"What is it?" Scully inquires after he disconnects the call.

"That was Kaplan. Looks like our guy has struck again.
There were four victims this time. Kaplan's officer says he
thinks the guy interrupted a drug deal. However, whoever
did this left the drugs and took only the money."

Doggett stands and waits for Scully to shrug on her coat.
He hadn't even had time to take his off. He starts to put
away his phone, only for it to ring again. He listens in
concern as the frightened caller on the other end pours out
his fears. As he snaps the phone shut, he says grimly to
Scully, "Looks like our Mr. Cooper has been a busy boy. I
just got a call from someone who's being stalked by him
right now at some place called the 'Tahoe' club."

"All right, let's go," Scully says briskly.

Doggett doesn't move. When Scully stares at him
impatiently, he looks at his feet for inspiration. "Um, look,
Agent Scully, normally there isn't anyone I would rather
have guarding my back, but you've got a baby to look
after, and..."

Scully cuts him off with a wave. "I know," she sighs. "I can
walk to the police station; it's only a block away. You go
ahead and I'll make sure you get some backup." Doggett
repeats the location to her and dashes out the door.

As he drives along, Doggett curses the byzantine street
layouts of New England cities. He finally catches sight of
the club, just as he is about to pass it. The building clearly
hasn't been used in years; tall weeds choke the parking lot.

He unholsters his gun and cautiously makes his way to the
club door. The lock is broken and he is able to push the
door slowly open. The interior is dark, illuminated only
by the orange glow of a nearby streetlight. Doggett wishes
he had thought to bring his flashlight. He slides against the
wall, peering in every shadow for signs of life. He refrains
from calling out, worried that any attempt to contact his
caller would alert Dwight as well.

An unidentifiable instinct prompts him to whirl around to
see Dwight raising a rifle at him. "Dwight Cooper. Drop
your weapon NOW!" Doggett commands, raising his own
gun in response.

The younger man's weapon wavers slightly and Doggett
softens his tone, "C'mon Dwight, put down the gun and
let's walk out of here. You don't want to do this."

Dwight shakes his head, "No, I don't want to this. But I
don't want to go to prison, either." He sounds resolved,
but his hands shake and his face contorts with some inner
battle. "Randy, no, I've got to do this," he whispers.

A clip-clop of heels causes both men to look towards the
entrance. Dwight is the first to recognize the new arrival.
"Tammi? What the hell are you doing here?" he asks, panic
tingeing his voice.

"I overheard your phone call," Tammi replies softly.
Doggett belatedly realizes he'd been duped. Tammi
continues, "You've got to stop this, Dwight. Tie him up,
we'll get out of here. Everything will be okay."

"No." Dwight has clearly regained his resolve. "I won't let
you be a fugitive. This ends now."

Tammi rushes towards Doggett, yelling, "No, Dwight, no!"
as Dwight raises the rifle to his shoulder. She throws
herself in front of the agent just as her boyfriend pulls the
trigger. She falls backwards onto the ground, blood
pouring from her chest.

Dwight nervelessly drops his gun and slides to his knees.
He puts one arm around Tammi's back and presses his
other hand against her wound, in a desperate attempt to
stop the flow. "Please, Tam, don't leave me," he sobs, "I'm
so sorry. I didn't want this to happen. Please don't die."

Doggett quickly calls for help, then strips off his jacket to
place over the dying woman. He is surprised to see
Dwight gazing off over his shoulder. He glances behind
him and is astounded to see the glimmering outline of a
tallish man he recognizes as Randall Cooper. "Randy,"
Dwight begs, "don't leave me, too. Please, I need you." The
apparition shakes his head, then fades away.
"Randyyyyy!" Dwight cries. His attention returns to the
woman in his arms. Doggett can almost see the life drain
from her body. Dwight screams again, "Tammi!
Nooooooo!"

* * *

Doggett finishes giving his statement and wanders over to
where Scully leans against their rental car. "Dwight Cooper
confessed to everything," he announces. "He claims he did
it for Randy and Tammi. Killing Carlson was supposed to
be some sort of Valentine's Day gift for Tammi."

"Who says romance is dead?" his partner quips absently,
apparently absorbed in her own thoughts.

"He'll probably get put away for life."

"I doubt there's any punishment greater than what he did
himself," Scully offers pensively. Her face is closed off and
distant. Doggett remembers her utter despair at the sight
of Mulder's corpse. He flashes back to his horror over the
cold, lifeless body of his son.

"No," he agrees, "I don't think there is."

THE END!