Patience
AS8x09 (originally 8x03)
Originally written by: Chris Carter
Rewritten by: Mary Ann

Prologue

Burley, Idaho
Tuesday: 3:08 a.m.

The countryside is dark, its pastoral hues shrouded by a blanket of 
snow. Heavy gray clouds cloak the night sky. Sporadic stands of trees, 
shorn of their leafy adornment, stretch craggy fingers toward the ashen 
heavens.

An ancient black hearse makes its way slowly down a rural road. Its 
yellowed headlights stab through the darkness cutting a sickly swath 
that illuminates the bent reeds of field grass that poke haphazardly 
through the snowdrifts along the roadside. The cumbersome vehicle pulls 
into a wide driveway, crawling toward a house that sits a short 
distance from the road. 

The house is a two-story; its appearance gives the definite impression 
that it has seen better days. The siding is weathered with age, the 
trim is flaking around the windows, the screen door does not close 
properly, and the steps up to the porch are rickety and uneven.

The car slows to a stop and a tall, dour-looking old man in a dark suit 
exits the vehicle and ambles slowly up the porch steps. The screen door 
squeaks his arrival and after jiggling the recalcitrant knob on the 
front door, he enters the house.

He proceeds slowly through the darkened room skirting the obstacle 
course of furniture toward the staircase to the second floor. As he 
ascends the stairs, the old wood announces every bit of his progress 
with a creak, despite his efforts to walk softly.

He gingerly turns the knob on the door leading to the largest bedroom. 
It turns smoothly and the door swings gently inward, a short squeal of 
a rusty hinge heralds his arrival. He stands in the doorway, frozen for 
just a second as a shadowy shape sits up in the bed. 

Twin gasps echo through the room.

The woman in bed breaks the silence. For crying out loud, George, are 
you trying to scare the last bit of life out of me? Her voice is 
slightly high-pitched and just a little breathless. You running short 
of customers that you need to scare me to death?

Regaining his composure, chiding himself for his nervous start, George 
replies, Rest yourself, Tahoma. You know I had to work on Zeke 
McPherson tonight. Service is tomorrow early.

And dont I know it. I can smell you from clear over here. How many 
times I have to tell you not to wear those smelly clothes up here in 
our room? Go downstairs and get changed. She nestles back under the 
covers. 

At his departing back she adds, And dont you leave them where Ill 
stumble over them tomorrow. Put them where they belong so I can tend to 
them properly.

George softly sighs as he closes the door and returns downstairs, not 
taking the care this time to be silent. He lets the warped screen door 
slam just a bit too loud and starts down the porch steps.

He stops short of the second step as a bright flash of light blurs his 
vision. He blinks rapidly trying to restore his sight. A red-purple 
light illuminates his face as a blast of hot air causes him to stagger. 
He stumbles when he tries to regain his footing on the slippery porch. 

The atmosphere crackles and sparks, the porch light explodes in a 
flurry of glass. The aura swiftly engulfs him and George's screams 
shatter the silence of the bleak night.

Footsteps echo from inside the house, growing louder as they near the 
front. The door is flung open and George's wife bursts through, only to 
stop suddenly at the sight before her. A small scream finds its way out 
of her throat. Her eyes roll shut as she faints. She falls, striking 
the back of her head on the doorknob.

************************

Hoover Building
Deputy Director Alvin Kersh's Office
Wednesday: 7:30 a.m.

Assistant Director Skinner is waiting in the outer area of Kersh's 
office. There are no seats, save the one at Kersh's assistants desk, 
which is empty. He is clearly waiting for someone. There is little to 
no traffic in the hallway at this early hour, so he easily hears the 
approaching footsteps following the sounds of the elevator.

Agent Scully comes around the corner. 

Skinner watches her approach and automatically catalogs the subtle 
markers of the stress she has been under for the past few months. He 
notices that while her black suit is impeccably tailored, and her hair 
perfectly styled, her makeup can't quite conceal the dark circles under 
her eyes. Her face is pale and drawn; any prenatal glow she might be 
expected to have is absent. 

Good morning, Agent Scully, Skinner begins, but her rigid demeanor 
does not invite further conversation beyond the perfunctory greeting. 
She is closed off; her armor is clearly in place.

Sir. Scully's greeting is as crisp as her appearance.

From past experience, they both know an early morning meeting in 
Kersh's office does not bode well. Skinner leads the way to the door, 
opens it and steps aside to let Scully go through first.

Deputy Director Kersh is seated behind his desk, perusing a file in 
front of him. It has the familiar red markings of an X-File. He does 
not look up as Scully and Skinner enter the room. 

Assistant Director Skinner, Agent Scully...sit down.

Scully and Skinner make their way to the two seats in front of Kershs 
desk. Skinner glances covertly at Scully. Her gaze is locked on Kersh, 
who continues to review the file in front of him, reading and flipping 
pages...a power play. After a few moments of this, he closes the file, 
laces his fingers together and rests his hands on top of the file, an 
unspoken punctuation mark.

Welcome back, Agent Scully, again, my condolences on the loss of Agent 
Mulder. It is always difficult to lose an agent no matter what the 
circumstance. But regardless, we need to move forward and focus our 
attention on current, viable cases assigned to this department. 

I called this meeting to inform you and Assistant Director Skinner, 
the Bureau is placing the file on Agent Mulder on an inactive status. 
There will be no further investigation into this matter.

Skinner angrily straightens in his chair. 

Scully does not display a visible reaction to Kersh, but Skinner 
notices that her hands tremble slightly as she clasps them tightly in 
her lap. 

Skinner tries to be reasonable. With all due respect, Deputy Director 
Kersh, this matter cannot be considered resolved by any means. A 
federal agent was kidnapped, tortured and murdered. No suspects have 
been named...

Kersh smoothly interrupts, Indeed, and due to a lack of forensic 
evidence or any viable leads, it is deemed to be a waste of Bureau 
resource and manpower. There will be no further pursuit. Any action in 
that regard will be perceived as gross insubordination and subject to 
summary censure and possible dismissal. The X-Files division will 
remain open at this time until a determination is made as to its 
validity within the operations of the Bureau. Is that clear, Agent 
Scully?

Scully looks fixedly at Kersh. 

Agent Scully? Kersh's tone demands a response.

Scully slowly rises from her chair and moves the short distance until 
she is just in front of his desk. She leans forward slightly, resting 
her hands on the edge of the desk. Her blue eyes, as cold and 
unyielding as steel, never waver from Kersh's stare.

The tension is palpable. Kersh, seeming to sense a threat, rises. 

Scully straightens, matching his movement. 

Skinner turns slightly in his seat, making himself ready to respond to 
action from either side. The standoff continues for a few more seconds. 
The office is deathly quiet.

Agent Scully...Ill ask you again...is that clear? His voice is low 
and ominous.

Scully is stone. She remains unmoving, unblinking for a few seconds 
until she finally responds. Her voice is severe, the disgust evident in 
the low, sharp tone. With all due respect, sir, I will never consider 
the file on Agent Mulder inactive until the truth is brought to light.

Kersh does not respond.

Scully holds the staring contest for a beat longer, then turns and 
heads for the door without waiting for a response or dismissal. 

Skinner is mildly surprised when the door does not slam; he admires her 
control. He shifts his attention back to Kersh.

Skinner is incredulous. For Gods sake, her partner was just buried. 
Murdered. This is the support you offer?

Kersh sits down at his desk, picks up the red folder and tosses it 
dismissively to the side. He looks across at Skinner.

If you feel Agent Scully is in need of emotional counseling, I would 
advise you to order her to avail herself of the services of the EAP. 
That will be all, Assistant Director.

The dismissal evident, Skinner rises from his chair, hesitates as if he 
has something further to add, then after a brief second of 
consideration, he exits the office, perversely satisfied as the door 
slams behind him.

*************************

Skinner walks quickly down the hall to the elevator, slowing as he 
approaches Scully. 

She viciously stabs the button again.

Agent Scully.

She turns her attention to Skinner. He can see she is quietly seething. 
She stares at him defiantly, her blue eyes stormy. 

Regardless of what Kersh says, I won't stop. I can't stop. Not until 
those responsible are found, her voice is adamant, And I will find 
them, sir.

Do you think that's appropriate right now? I know you want to find 
those responsible but you have to stop and consider...what about 
your... he glances around to assure himself of their solitude. Your 
situation?

I haven't stopped considering my situation for a moment. But this is 
far from finished. It's owed to Mulder. It's owed to... her voice 
drops to a whisper. I have to make sure it's known, she pauses to 
take a steadying breath. I'll make certain it's known what the cost 
was.

Skinner starts to reply but the elevator signals its arrival. Scully 
steps in and jabs the button. She fixes him with an icy stare. I'm 
sorry, sir, but it doesn't end with a funeral service and meaningless 
platitudes mumbled by people with self-serving agendas.

Skinner quickly thrusts his hand between the elevator doors to keep 
them from closing. No one wants to get the people responsible for 
Mulders death more than I do, Scully, he says in an intense murmur, 
And I will help you however I can. You know that. But I won't let you 
kill yourself over it, or ruin your life. I owe that much to Mulder. I 
think you need to look in the mirror, long and hard, and ask yourself 
just how far Mulder would want you to go. Don't lose sight of where 
he'd want you to draw the line.

He removes his hand from where it holds the elevator open and a few 
seconds later, the doors slide shut.

************************ 

Journal of Dana Scully

It has become a habit of mine, writing in a journal to you. Cataloguing 
my thoughts, purging myself of fears and emotions in a way that I was 
not courageous enough to do with you in life. Even though you are gone, 
I find it a comfort to be able to write these words to you even though 
it is impossible that you will ever read them. 

It is incomprehensible that our time together has come to an end in 
this fashion and you have become a casualty of that which you pursued 
for so many years - your unending, unrelenting search for the truth. 
There were many times I feared you would join the legion of victims, a 
ceaseless roll call of death, but even when you were taken, I thought 
once again you would cheat death and return to me whole and unharmed.

My worst nightmare has now become reality and each day I feel the void 
left by your passing. Your name has become an addendum to an unholy 
testament of deceit and lies, written in blood and punctuated with 
tears, and I feel as cold as the earth that now holds you in an icy 
embrace.

Without your sustaining presence by my side, I must now continue the 
journey we began so long ago. I have never felt so alone.
 
************************

X-Files Office
Wednesday: 7:48 a.m.

Sunlight streams through the few windows that decorate the office. The 
small lamp on the desk casts an additional small measure of 
illumination. 

Scully is seated behind the desk, glasses on, reviewing the case file 
before her, making notes on a pad off to the side. A few scribbles 
later, she finishes and places her notes in the file along with the 
original report. As she gathers a small stack of related photos 
scattered on the desk, her fingers nudge Mulder's nameplate. She looks 
pensively at the shiny marker of Mulder's domain while she absently 
closes the folder. Removing her glasses, she leans back in the chair. 

She reaches across and retrieves the nameplate. Her eyes fill with 
moisture as she slowly caresses the square letters with her thumb. The 
tears threaten to overflow and Scully shuts her eyes against them and 
takes several slow, deep breaths as she restores her inner calm. 

Her reverie is interrupted as she hears the murmur of several voices. 
The volume steadily increases as their owners near the office. Scully 
places the nameplate back in its appointed place. She squares her 
shoulders and takes another steadying breath as her full attention 
shifts to the approaching company. 

So, this is where they put you if you dont play well with others.

How does it feel to be an inmate in the loony bin, John?

Raucous male laughter accompanies the juvenile repartee.

Scully rolls her eyes. The bureaus finest, she mutters under her 
breath as she stands to prepare for the coming interruption.

Agent Doggett comes through the doorway first, slightly turned toward 
the two male agents following him. He does not see that Scully is in 
the office and has been privy to their conversation. 

The other two agents are still chuckling at their own quips. They 
swallow their merriment quickly when they see the not-amused persona of 
Agent Scully. 

Doggett notices their discomfort and turns to see Scully coolly 
regarding the small group. 

Her glance sweeps dismissively over the two agents. She directs a 
greeting to Doggett. Good morning. The affront in her voice tells him 
she has heard every word. 

Embarrassed, he stammers, trying to cover their faux pas. 
Uh...morning, he glances back to the two agents, Um...Ill...uh, 
Ill catch you guys later.

The visitors depart, their movements and muttered words awkward and 
apologetic.

Doggett moves further into the office and half-heartedly gestures at 
the door. Some friends...they're just curious.

Let them satisfy their curiosity elsewhere. I'm here to work. 

As she speaks, Scully retrieves the file she has been reviewing from 
the desk. She hands it to Doggett. This is our next assignment. 

As he takes the file from her, Doggett tries for an apology. I'm 
really sorry. I just...uh...I know this has to be hard for you.

Thank you. I'm fine. Let's get to work. Scully walks to the adjoining 
room to stand by the slide projector and waits for Doggett. He flips 
off the light switch and moves to join her. The first image is 
displayed on the wall before them.

White male, 62, undertaker by profession...homicide...in Idaho...he 
was killed on his front porch. His wife, who was upstairs in their 
bedroom, upon hearing what sounded like...quote, 'ungodly screams,' end 
quote...came downstairs, allegedly seeing the homicide in 
progress...which, also according to her account, looked like a scene 
from a bad science fiction movie. She allegedly saw, in her words, what 
looked like a monster. It upset her so badly she fainted, sustaining a 
head injury when she struck her head on the front doorknob. 

Scully advances the projector to the next slide. The image splashes 
upon the wall, a close-up picture of the victim's face and neck--torn 
and bloody, the flesh hanging in ribbons. 

Jeez. Doggett is awe-stricken. 

The victim had numerous deep lacerations. On his head, torso, 
virtually every inch of his body.

Doggett walks closer to the image and studies the gruesome sight. He 
glances at Scully. By what, an animal? 

At this point it has been classified as a homicide.

Doggett fidgets uncomfortably, disturbed by what he sees. Ive seen 
some violent crimes, I mean, some seriously screwed up stuff, 
but...uh...this is extreme. Is there demonstration of motive?

Not according to local PD.

Is there any pattern...uh...ritual or anything?

Scully slowly shakes her head. 

Doggett persists. Is the wife a suspect?

The local PD says no. I'm not willing to rule out that possibility 
until we talk to her.

I have to admit, Agent Scully, I'm at a loss.

Well, lets see if we can get some answers.

************************

Burley, Idaho
Wednesday: 3:15 p.m.

The rental car pulls into the broad driveway. The snow crunches under 
the car's wheels as it slows to a halt a short distance from the black 
hearse. Marked and unmarked police cars speckle the property.

A small knot of uniformed deputies and plainclothes detectives are 
gathered near the steps to the front porch. A tall, heavy-set man turns 
to observe the newcomers. 

As Agents Scully and Doggett exit the vehicle, he leaves the group to 
meet them. He is wearing an ill-fitting dark suit and his ample stomach 
strains the buttons of his white shirt. The deep furrow between his 
eyebrows, coupled with his impatient tone, make it evident he is less 
than happy to see them.

You the folks from the FBI?

Yes, Scully responds as she closes the car door. She moves to the 
front of the vehicle matching Agent Doggett's movements on the other 
side of the car.

Detective Yale Abbott, Cassia County Sheriff's Department.

Scully extends her hand in greeting. Hi. Agent Scully. Agent Doggett. 

Detective Abbott limply shakes Scully's hand and rudely turns his back 
on her. He gives Doggett a firm handshake and addresses him directly. 
We like to think we can handle our own problems around here but a 
couple of hotshots up in the county seat seem to think this is beyond 
us. Not that we don't appreciate your coming out all this way to give 
us a hand. His tone says otherwise.

Scully is slightly peeved as she moves from behind Abbott. She crosses 
her arms in front; her body language displays her displeasure at the 
slight. 

Seemingly unaware, Doggett replies. Well, I hope we can. I have to 
admit I'm a little baffled by what I've seen. 

How so?

Scully interjects, Understand, Detective, cases like yours are handled 
regularly by our unit. Agent Doggett has only been with the X-Files a 
short time. 

Abbott finally acknowledges Scully, who continues reasonably, I can 
assure you, we're only here to help you find answers and help bring 
about a resolution to this case.

In a patronizing tone, Abbott talks down to Scully. Well, that's just 
what I was getting around to, ma'am. Were pretty sure now that these 
marks were made by an animal. 

He gestures to the porch and then motions the agents to follow him.

Neighbors discovered the body, so there was contamination of the 
general crime scene. My boys did a real damn good job of separating the 
various shoe prints and pulling this. See here?

They ascend the steps and stop just short of the porch. Abbott points 
at a smudged print in the blood splashed on the porch. Right there. 
See that? Scully squats down to get a better look at what Abbot has 
indicated. The vague outline shows the owner of the print has four 
toes.

Doggett squints at the print. What is it?

It's not human, I know that. Abbott is smug.

Scully continues to study the print. It's not quite animal, either.

Abbott argues. There're only four toes.

Scully speaks up at the two men. That's not an unheard of birth 
defect...uh...no more rare than polydactylism.

Abbott is baffled. What did she just say? 

Doggett gives a small shrug, I assume she means it could be human. He 
looks at Scully for confirmation, Is that a fair assumption? 

Scully stands and faces the two men. She gestures at the print, 
slightly irritated. I'm not going to assume anything at this point.

Abbott glares at Scully who returns his gaze evenly.

An uneasy silence ensues.

Doggett shifts uncomfortably. Well, I have to say I worked a lot of 
homicides, but if the victim laid out here for any time at all in a 
setting like this, it'd be pretty remarkable if animals werent 
attracted.

An uneasy silence ensues.

Scully quietly says, I think that post-mortem predation is definitely 
a consideration here, but I only see one print and if it were an animal 
there would be numerous prints all over here and in the yard. 

She makes a motion at the group of deputies gathered a few feet away.

They immediately look down and begin carefully looking for clues they 
might have been stepping on all morning.

She looks at Doggett. You agree, Agent Doggett?

Doggett sidesteps her remark. I'm going to take a look around. He 
leaves the group and enters the house.

Abbott turns to Scully who has begun to survey their surroundings 
carefully. She points at the light fixture with its protruding jagged 
shards. What happened to this?

Probably some kids broke it out, he says flatly.

Scully waits for a few seconds to see if he will elaborate on his 
response. When it becomes evident hes not going to say anything 
further, she gives a short nod. Okay... she says quietly to herself.

She begins to slowly walk around the area where the attack took place. 
Why is the snow melted where the attack took place but the steps and 
walkway are still snow-covered?

They probably put salt down or maybe they shoveled.

How many people only salt a small area of the porch, Detective? Have 
you looked for a shovel?

No, we havent, Abbott huffs. Want to tell me what any of this has 
to do with a man being killed?

Im just trying to find some answers, Scully says as she continues 
her perusal.

He watches impatiently as she looks up at the porch rafters. She points 
up at an area where the wood appears to be charred. How about up 
here? 

Abbott says brusquely, You know I got a victim in the morgue mauled 
beyond recognition from what appears to be an animal. I havent got 
anything so far that says otherwise. No motive, no intent, no sign of a 
weapon. There's not one shred of evidence that cries out for a human 
explanation, yet you stand there telling me flat out that what were 
looking for is a man.

He turns and walks down the steps. He throws a parting shot over his 
shoulder. Thanks for everything, Agent Scully. We'll take it from 
here.

The female agent regards his retreating back and calls after him, I'm 
sure your explanation will mollify all those hotshots down at the 
county seat, Detective and relieve any general anxiety about what 
happened out here. What explanation will you have if it happens again? 

Abbott does not acknowledge her remark and walks toward the cluster of 
vehicles, gesturing to the rest of the officers. 

Scully makes her way carefully down the porch steps and walks to the 
bureau car. She retrieves the field kit from the trunk and walks back 
to the house, the noise of the departing vehicles behind her. 

As she nears the steps, Doggett calls from inside the house, Agent 
Scully.

She enters the house and joins Doggett at the foot of the stairs. He 
indicates the bottom step. There is a mark that appears to match the 
one on the porch. Is that a second print?

Scully reaches into her coat pocket and brings out a pair of latex 
gloves. She puts them on and crouches down to scrutinize the print. It 
could be but Im not sure if it tells us anything.

Well, maybe there's no prints in the yard because whatever made these 
didn't go through the yard...it came through the house.

Scully nods, acknowledging his reply. Well, if anything, Id say this 
print leads up the stairs.

They sidestep the print and ascend the creaking stairs. Doggett leads 
the way and heads into the main bedroom.

The room is as sparsely furnished as the rest of the house. Old, worn 
furniture, handed down through generations of users, decorates the 
room. Generic paintings dot the dingy walls. An old lamp sits atop a 
yellowed doily on a four-drawer dresser. Dust motes float in the air, 
illuminated by the sunlight through partially drawn window curtains. 
The room has the musty smell indigenous to old houses.

Scully examines both sides of the bedroom door and finding nothing 
amiss, crosses to the window. She carefully pushes aside the thin 
curtains and notes the sash is secure and locked.

Doggett is down on his hands and knees, searching underneath the bed. 
He peers closely into the dimly lit space. His voice is muffled. You 
know, there is a more obvious explanation.

What?

Rising from his knees, he gives a cursory brush to his pants. The more 
basic answer is what were dealing with here is simply a man...a 
psychotic killer with a deformed foot. You're familiar with the 
principle of Occam's Razor?

Scully nods bemusedly. Yeah. You take every possible explanation and 
you choose the simplest one. Mulder used to refer to it as Occam's 
Principle of Limited Imagination, she is silent for a brief second, 
Unless you have a simple explanation as to how a killer with a 
deformed foot leaves a print only every 25 feet.

Doggett acknowledges her logic. No.

According to the wife, her husband had just come home. She heard her 
husband's screams and went downstairs to investigate. She saw something 
killing her husband and yet...she was not attacked. Why not?

Doggett scrubs a hand across his face, perplexed. I don't know. Maybe 
she scared him off.

Maybe. Scully opens the door to the small closet. A row of out-dated 
dark suits, bordered on one side by a small selection of faded, 
paisley-print housedresses, spans the length of a wooden rod. Boxes of 
all shapes and sizes clutter the top shelf. Shoes are clustered 
together on the floor. 

She spies a small opening in the ceiling, its cover slightly askew. A 
piece of frayed rope hangs from the hole. 

Agent Doggett... she calls softly.

Doggett joins her in the narrow doorway. He reaches up and tugs on the 
rope. A small ladder unfolds. 

Scully hands the field kit to Doggett and climbs the ladder through the 
opening. She leans back through the hole and takes the field kit from 
Doggett, who has climbed halfway up the ladder. She sets it down and 
begins rummaging through it.

Doggett climbs through and warily looks around. He digs in the pocket 
of his jacket, finally bringing out a small 6-inch Mag-Lite. He flips 
it on; its tiny light pierces the dim room. You ever carry one of 
these? He waggles the light at Scully.

No. Never, Scully mutters as she produces a 12-inch Ultra Mag-Lite 
from the field kit and clicks it on. The powerful beam slices through 
the darkness. 

Sheepishly, Doggett looks at his tiny flashlight. Oh.

The agents move to opposite sides of the small enclosure. 

After several minutes of fruitless searching, Scully spots something on 
the rafters. She moves closer and points to the roof. There. I saw 
something similar to that on the porch, too.

Doggett walks over. He peers at the mark illuminated by her flashlight. 
Looks like, to me...I dont know...like a...a...

Scorch mark? She lifts an inquiring eyebrow.

From what? Fire damage? Doggett queries. 

I dont know. Looks pretty localized, just like out front. Scully 
sweeps the light slowly across the ceiling. I dont see any more 
marks. She moves back to the small opening. 

Doggett follows and watches as she puts the flashlight away. I dont 
think were going to find anything else here, he says.

I dont think we are either. Im going to need to get a look at the 
body. Maybe you can do some digging down at the sheriffs office and 
find out if this victim is the only one.

************************

Morgue
Wednesday: 7:12 p.m.

The morgue is hushed and chilly. The fluorescent lights overhead cast 
blurry reflections on the fronts of the stainless steel cabinets and 
drawers. The autopsy table has its normally gleaming surface dulled by 
streaky rivulets of various body fluids that belong to the corpse 
adorning it. 

Scully drapes a sheet over the body of the undertaker. Her scrubs show 
the telltale signs of her efforts to find any forensic secrets this 
body may tell her. Snapping off her latex gloves, she tosses them in 
the appropriate container. The mask and protective glasses follow, each 
to their appropriate place. 

Fatigue is evident in her drawn features. She puts her hands against 
the small of her back and stretches, trying to work the knots out of 
her spine. A tired sigh escapes as she stands by the autopsy table, 
arms akimbo; shoulders slumped as she stares at the sheet-covered body.

She straightens her posture as the door swings open and Agent Doggett 
enters the room, a sheaf of papers clutched in his hand. Youre still 
here, he notes.

Scully tiredly indicates the body. Something's not adding up.

Why? What did you find?

Nothing that will allay anyone's fears about what killed this man.

*What*. You mean*who* killed him.

Well, to be honest, some aspects of what I found here do lean more 
towards an animal explanation--the jagged scratches, the lacerations in 
the flesh. While these are more consistent with an animal, I can't 
definitively state what caused this, primarily, because of what I 
didnt find. 

Off Doggetts skeptical look, she continues. No saliva residue in the 
tissue. No trace of fur, which is impossible if you go with the theory 
of an animal attack. No fibers of any type. In fact, I can't find a 
damned trace of anything.

Anything else?

His skin...what's left of it...is burned...much like a first-degree 
burn...redness...absence of blisters, but there wasnt anything to 
indicate he had been anywhere near a heat source. It uniformly covers 
every bit of exposed skin but there is no evidence of burns on his 
clothing or the skin underneath the clothing. It's almost as if... 

She gently rubs tired eyes. It's almost as if this happened by itself. 
Its weird. 

Another short pause, then determinedly, she pushes ahead. It reminds 
me of a case Mulder and I investigated a few years ago. An ancient 
Ecuadorian artifact that held the remains of a female shaman was 
unearthed. Those involved supposedly invoked a curse and were 
subsequently devoured by a jaguar spirit.

I remember reading about that, Doggett chuffs. Youre not serious.

Scully raises her hands in resignation. Vengeful jaguar spirits aside, 
at this point, I don't have enough to make a justifiable 
determination. 

So...? Doggett asks guardedly.

At this point...I don't even want to guess. Which, I'm sure, will 
further endear us with local law enforcement.

Doggett chuckles, yeah, you and Detective Abbott really hit it off.

Tell me about it. She makes a concerted effort to tone down her 
frustration by taking a deep breath. So, have you turned up anything?

He waves the papers. Well, maybe. Could be coincidence though.

A wistful look appears in Scullys eyes. 

It goes unnoticed by Doggett as he moves to a nearby counter and starts 
laying out the papers like an oversized game of Solitaire. I went down 
to the sheriff's department and found these reports. They caught my 
eye. 

Scully plucks the first paper off the counter and scans it.

Doggett leans in slightly, reading aloud over her shoulder. First 
death... 

Scully looks at him questioningly. 

He nods and continues, About one month ago...one Andrew Stefaniuk...33 
year old white male...second of three sons...local family...somewhat 
prosperous, well-known around here. He was shot in the back of the 
head, close range, in what was termed a hunting accident. 

Scully looks surprised. Back of the head? An accident? 

Yeah...hell of an aim...turns out it was his older brother, Ernie. 
There wasnt an autopsy or inquest. The coroner ruled it an accidental 
death. His name was George Schaefer.

Scully glances up at Doggett. This bit of news she was not expecting. 

He continues his recital. None other than our victim. There was what 
appears to be a cursory investigation by the sheriffs department--
interview with Ernie Stefaniuk and thats about it. Your buddy, 
Detective Abbott, was the lead investigator.

He picks up the next report and hands it to Scully. Heres another 
suspicious death. Ariel Stefaniuk, wife of Ernie Stefaniuk. She was 
fished out of the river about two weeks ago. Our Mr. Schaefer ruled 
death by drowning. Again, no autopsy or inquest, even though it would 
appear the body was in pretty bad shape. They attributed the mutilation 
to scavenging fish and submersion in the river for several days. The 
burn marks they didn't have an explanation for. Detective Abbott led 
the investigation on this one too.

Doggett motions for Scully to turn the page. It peaked my interest 
because it looks like Ariel Stefaniuks wounds are similar to George 
Schaefers.

Scully looks closely at the gruesome photo of Ariel Stefaniuks body. 
She shakes her head in disbelief. Two closely related victims...both 
of whom died violent deaths...literally within weeks of each other and 
no one followed up with an investigation. Hard to believe.

Detective Abbott didn't seem to think there was anything to it. He 
closed both cases. From what Ive read there wasnt any attempt made to 
probe into either case.

Unfortunately, there seems to be a lot of that going around, Scully 
says absently as she continues to study the report.

Doggett tilts his head questioningly at Scully who turns and begins to 
gather the papers from the counter. Id hate to think how he would 
classify George Schaefers death if we werent here, she mumbles. 

Yeah, its odd because I talked briefly with a few deputies and they 
said hes a top-notch investigator. But still, the similarity between 
Schaefer and Ariel Stefaniuk...almost jumps out at you.

I agree the wounds do seem to share the same characteristics. But I 
think we need to talk to George Schaefer's wife first. Right now, she's 
the only witness.

Well, Detective Abbott took her statement. From what I read in his 
notes, he thought it was a waste of time.

Maybe Detective Abbott didn't ask the right questions. That would 
appear to be his mode of investigation lately. She starts for the 
door, turning as she opens it. Ill get changed and meet you out 
front, then well head to the hospital.

************************

Burley City Hospital
Wednesday: 8:07 p.m.

The nurse points the two agents down the hall. Their footfalls echo as 
they stride down the featureless corridor with its gleaming tiles and 
sterile white walls.

Upon locating the room, Scully gives a couple of soft raps on the door 
to alert its occupant to their presence. 

The woman in the bed is swaddled in blankets against the coolness of 
the room; a thin, white gauze bandage cuts a circular swath around her 
white hair, her face is lined with wrinkles, the testament to her age. 
She has the shrunken appearance that hospitals seem to impart on their 
patients. She is aimlessly watching the TV, flipping the channels. 
Magazines clutter the bed's tray table, along with a half-full glass of 
water and a box of Kleenex. 

She notices the agents and mutes the television. Sorry, didn't hear 
you come in. She waves toward the television. Always thought TV was a 
waste of time.

Scully approaches the hospital bed, reaches in her jacket pocket and 
retrieves her identification. Mrs. Schaefer? 

As the woman nods, Scully continues, My name is Agent Scully...this is 
Agent Doggett. We're with the FBI. We need to ask you a few questions 
about your husband.

Mrs. Schaefer sounds confused. The FBI? But Ive already talked to the 
police, she huffs ruefully, They think I'm a hysterical, old twit. 
That my mind isn't right...that I was in shock from seeing...they don't 
believe me, her voice trembles slightly. You won't believe me either 
but you can go ahead and ask your questions. She half-heartedly waves 
toward the bedside chair.

Taking the offered seat, Scully is patient and conciliatory. Were 
sorry for your loss and know this is very upsetting, but can you tell 
us what you saw that night?

A tiny noise escapes Mrs. Schaefer's throat as a shaking hand covers 
her mouth. Taking a steadying breath, she tries to compose herself. 
Nevertheless, her voice trembles slightly as she answers, I saw my 
husband killed right in front of me...who it was or what it 
was...well...it...it wasn't anything of this world. 

She raises herself to a sitting position and leans toward Scully. I'm 
a God-fearing woman, Agent Scully, I believe in the Almighty without a 
doubt...and what I saw was straight from hell. It wasn't no man that 
killed my George...that thing was the very devil himself.

What did this devil look like?

Well, it was...it was like a cloud...a glowing cloud...all swirling 
and dark...and the air on the porch was ungodly hot...I remember 
thinking, how could it be so hot, what with how it's been so cold, 
never mind it being the middle of winter, but I remember a blast of hot 
air, like there was fire close by, only there wasn't. It was so 
hot...when I went out of the house...like a blast furnace.

When you say dark, you mean it was dark outside?

No, no. The thing. Mrs. Schaefer says impatiently. Its colorit 
was dark-colored, like a real dark purple...it wasnt white like you 
see with regular clouds...and it...acted angry.

It acted angry? How do you mean? Scully interrupts abruptly.

You could feel it...almost like something you could reach out and 
touch. I swear it looked like there was the devil in it. It was 
angry...and it was attacking him. She covers her face with her hands. 
It killed him.

I'm sorry, Mrs. Schaefer, can you go on or do you need a few minutes?

Mrs. Schaefer drops her hands, tears shimmering in her eyes and gives 
Scully a tremulous smile. I'll be alright. I just still can't believe 
it really happened. Maybe I am just a foolish, old woman. 

Please, go on, Scully gently prompts.

Thats all I saw and that's all I know, cause then I fainted and next 
thing I know, Im here...and George is dead, she says sadly, clutching 
at a Kleenex. 

She blows her nose loudly, then wads the tissue and tosses it to the 
small table where it rolls and comes to rest against the glass. 

She plucks a fresh tissue from the box as her eyes meet Scully's and 
she states resolutely, I don't want to believe it, but I know what I 
saw. I don't care what that big-mouth from the sheriff says.

And who would that be?

Mrs. Schaefer spits out her answer. Detective Abbott. After I talked 
to him, he came right out and said he didn't believe me...that I was 
probably mistaken with what I saw...'I was overwrought,' he said. He 
didn't like it one bit when I told him that I wasn't overwrought and 
that I was sure about what I saw. She clasps her hands decisively in 
her lap.

Nodding, Scully purses her lips thoughtfully. Mrs. Schaefer, did your 
husband ever discuss his work with you?

Not really. Just comments now and again. It's not the kind of thing 
you talk about over supper, you know. A small, rueful smile tugs at 
the corner of the womans mouth.

Scully encourages Mrs. Schaefer to elaborate. Your husband was the 
coroner as well as the undertaker?

Yes, we're just a little county. George did both jobs...has for a lot 
of years. Too many years he said just last week. 

She thoughtfully considers, and shakes a finger at Scully for emphasis. 
You know, come to think of it...there was something that's been going 
on...with George, I mean. He seemed nervous...kind of out of 
sorts...you know, upset...like something wasnt sitting right with 
him...and that just wasn't George. Mostly he was just easy-going...able 
to get along with everybody. But lately, he just wasn't himself.

What do you think was wrong? Scully urges.

She is hesitant as she searches her memory. Don't know exactly...he 
never said...he just mentioned more than once that maybe he was getting 
too old to do the job...had too many years in...he was tired of the 
politics...that kind of thing. 

But he never came out and indicated what was wrong. What might have 
been disturbing him? Scully persists. 

No, he never said.

And how long would you say he had been acting out of character?

The old woman ponders her answer for a brief second, and then 
decisively replies, a few weeks, maybe a month, he'd been acting all 
squirrelly but we didnt talk about it. He never liked anyone to push 
him. Now, I wish Id made him tell me. Her eyes fill with tears. You 
just always think therell be time later. I didnt think about the day 
where I would give anything just to hear his voice again. She drops 
her head in sorrow, swiping at her nose with the Kleenex.

The old womans statement rocks Scully momentarily as it reminds her of 
her own loss. In order to hide her emotions she lowers her head, as if 
thinking of her next question.

Surreptitiously, she takes a calming breath and regains her composure. 
I have just a few more questions, Mrs. Schaefer. On the night of your 
husbands death, was your porch light working?

The woman pauses in mid-sniffle. Yes, Im sure it was.

You sound very certain.

I am. I always turned it on for him whenever he would be late coming 
home. I turned it on that night. If it had been out, George wouldve 
said something, her voice is bittersweet, He wouldnt have changed 
it, mind you, but he wouldve said something.

I realize you may think this is a strange question, but when your 
husband shoveled snow, did he only clear the porch?

A short, scratchy laugh comes from the woman. George didnt shovel 
snow. We had a young boy that lives down the road do it for us whenever 
it was needed. But he hasnt done it lately. Hes probably got better 
things to do than shovel snow on his Christmas vacation.

I see. Thats all the questions I have. She looks over to Doggett 
standing silently near the door. Agent Doggett?

Doggett says quietly, I think youve covered everything.  

Scully rises from her chair. Thank you for your time. Youve been very 
helpful. 

Mrs. Schaefer nods tearfully as she watches the two agents leave.

************************

The agents exit the room and walk down the hall in silence. A short 
distance from Mrs. Schaefer's room, Doggett stops. 

Scully notices his action and turns to face him. What?

You believe her? he asks tentatively.

You mean, what she says killed her husband?

Yeah, that business about a purple cloud.

Scully briefly ponders his question. She says carefully, I believe she 
saw something that night. Given everything that doesnt add up in this 
case, I can't disregard what she is saying.

Doggett starts to reply but stops when he sees Scullys attention is 
captured by something behind him. He turns and sees Detective Abbott 
striding angrily toward them, his freckled face mottled with anger. He 
bypasses Doggett and stops in front of Scully, who meets his angry 
stare head-on. 

The faint sunlight streaming through the window at the end of the hall 
silhouettes Abbott's form and gives him a dark, menacing appearance. 

What in the hell are you doing, lady? Abbott gestures angrily toward 
the old womans room. I've already taken her statement. She didn't 
have anything to contribute to this case.

Hands on her hips, Scully shoots back her reply. The name is Special 
Agent Scully, and I beg to differ, Detective. She saw her husband 
killed. She's a witness.

She was in shock. She doesn't know what she saw.

Mrs. Schaefer is understandably upset by the death of her 
husband...but it doesn't seem to be something she would make up under 
duress. She seemed to be very certain of what she saw. I'm not going to 
disregard what she told me, and with the bizarre nature of this case so 
far, I would think that every angle would be investigated. Certainly 
not summarily disregarded just because it doesn't fit in with your 
view.

Abbott glares at Scully. 

Unflinching, she matches his stare. What about Ariel Stefaniuk, 
Detective? she asks evenly. 

The detective sputters, his face turning a darker shade of red. 
What!!? 

Scully continues calmly, Ariel Stefaniuk. I understand she was killed 
a few weeks ago. Her body was burned and mutilated.

He glowers at her. Just what are you saying?

I'm saying there may be a connection between the two victims.

How do you figure that? Abbott barks.

Stubbornly, Scully forges ahead. I cant say for certain. But I need 
to examine Ariels body.

Honest to god, you just jump at whatever explanation is the wildest 
and most far-fetched, don't you?

Well, I suggest you jump at it too, because there are too many 
similarities between George Schaefer and Ariel Stefaniuk to disregard 
the possibility of a connection, Scully is openly belligerent, Why 
are you so willing to ignore this?

Abbott sneers, So...what...now you're trying to say Ariel Stefaniuk 
was killed the same way George Schaefer was?

Scullys eyes flash with anger. She is tired of Abbotts overbearing 
attitude. All Im saying is with the bizarre nature of this case so 
far, every possibility needs to be explored. Her body needs to be 
exhumed for examination so a possible connection can either be 
substantiated or eliminated. 

Exhumed! Why... Abbott's rant is cut off when Doggett suddenly steps 
between them. 

He holds up a hand in a non-threatening gesture. Is there a problem 
with what Agent Scully is saying? I agree with her. Theres too much 
that doesnt add up. Id think youd want some answers, Doggetts tone 
is reasonable but the hard stare he gives Abbott doesnt invite further 
discussion, I know I want some answers. How about it?

A palpable tension hovers between the detective and the two agents. The 
big detective huffs angrily as he turns without a word and walks away.

Doggett faces Scully. He raises his hands in a what can you do 
gesture. Sorry if I stepped on your toes just now. I just got tired of 
listening to his mouth.

Scully smiles slightly. No, its okay. Thanks for stepping in.

Doggett shrugs. Not a problem. Where to now?

She purses her lips thoughtfully before answering, Im going to go 
back to the morgue...see if theres anything I might have missed.

Doggett shifts uncomfortably. Yeah. Okay. Uh...if you dont mind, Im 
going to head back over to the sheriffs office and nose around some 
more.


  
************************

Cassia County Cemetery
Wednesday: 10:37 p.m.

Scattered clouds drift lazily overhead. Nestled far from roads or 
farmhouses, the county cemetery is lonesome and isolated. Gravestones 
stand like silent sentinels, their varied shapes and forms monuments to 
the eternal sleep of the inhabitants.

The raucous engine of a backhoe suddenly shatters the tranquil setting. 
The metal mouth methodically scoops up great gulps of dirt as it 
steadily peels away the layers of Ariel Stefaniuk's grave. It makes 
quick work of the excavation. 

Careful placement of sturdy ropes, the steadily increasing growl of the 
engine signifies the massive vault cover being hauled to the surface. 
It is laid to rest beside the mound of dirt and the ropes are loosened. 

The worker climbs down into the opened grave and fastens them around 
the exposed coffin. He scrambles up and the machine roars as it brings 
its cargo to the surface. It trundles the coffin over to a flatbed 
truck parked nearby. 

Headlights cast a harsh light briefly upon the site as a car pulls up a 
short distance away. Detective Abbott exits his vehicle, leaving the 
engine running and lights on. 

He lights a cigarette as he approaches the two men and nods a greeting. 
You guys sure work fast. I didn't think you'd get finished this 
quick.

The older of the two men draws a dirty bandana out of his back pocket 
and swipes it over his sweaty face. I don't know of anybody who wants 
to hang around here after dark, unless they're up to no good. Ive been 
doing this longer than I care to say...and I still don't like being out 
here after the sun goes down.

Appreciate you guys getting this done right away.

Whats the big rush anyway? Couldn't it wait till morning? The old 
man queries as he glances around uneasily.

Abbott takes a deep drag from his cigarette and exhales sharply. Some 
hotshot broad from the FBI throwing her weight around. Says it needed 
done tonight. Like that body's going to go somewhere between tonight 
and tomorrow...or get any deader.

The young gravedigger chuckles softly. 

The old man shushes him. Show some respect. You want someone cracking 
wise in your resting place?

The young man smirks, Like I'm gonna know? When I'm dead, I'm dead...I 
ain't gonna know no difference.

Hush...you don't know for certain. The old man is nervous. We're 
finished here. Give us a call when youre done. 

He hurries to the truck. His assistant follows, amused at his partner's 
show of nerves.

Abbott calls after them, I'll call you tomorrow, soon as Miss Fancy 
Pants is done.

The truck rumbles away leaving Abbott standing near the open grave. He 
takes another puff as he watches the red taillights grow smaller. 
Silence settles like a blanket except for an intermittent pop from the 
backhoe's cooling engine.

Abbott finishes his cigarette and grinds it under his heel. He starts 
walking toward his car, his footsteps muffled against the snow. The air 
suddenly turns still and heavy. A primal instinct causes the hair on 
the detective's neck to prickle as he senses a presence. He stops and 
turns slowly. Nervously, he scans the cemetery. 

The outer fringe of the car's headlights turns the rows of headstones 
into shapeless blurs. If he stares hard enough, they appear to be 
moving. Shaking his head at his foolishness, he resumes his journey to 
his car.

A violent blast of hot air at his back causes him to stumble. 
Recovering his balance, he turns and is startled by the shimmering 
apparition pulsing in front of him. The blurry wraith hovers for a 
brief second, emanating heat like a miniature sun as its malevolence 
increases. Abbott stumbles backwards as he tries to escape. 

The specter is upon him in an instant. 

The headlights on the car shatter, plunging the cemetery into total 
darkness except for the iridescent phantom and the sound of Abbotts 
screams echoing through the darkness.

************************

Morgue
Thursday: 12:08 a.m.

Scully sits perched on the stool, her sneaker-clad feet hooked over the 
rungs. One hand props up her head as she transcribes her notes on her 
initial examination of Ariel Stefaniuk. She pauses to gently rub at her 
weary eyes. It has been a long day and doesn't show any sign of ending 
soon. 

She grimaces and tries to relieve the tight muscles in her neck by 
moving her head from side to side. She refocuses on the papers in front 
of her.

Her train of thought is derailed as the door opens. She experiences a 
sense of dj vu as Agent Doggett appears in the doorway. He steps to 
the side as a sheet-covered body is wheeled into the room. 

Doggett kicks the doorstop down to keep the door open and silently 
mouths, 'Abbott.' 

Scully arches an eyebrow but doesnt respond. 

A deputy appears in the doorway and motions to Doggett. I want a word 
with you. 

Doggett glances at Scully before he follows the deputy into the hall. 

Angrily, the officer gestures toward the room. Look, we listened to 
you. The detective listened to you. We could have been out hunting this 
thing down, Agent Doggett.

You should be doing that now. Doggett states calmly.

Now? Now's too late for the detective, isn't it? Look, we don't need 
you or your partner telling us what to do. She's the one responsible 
for this.

Nobody's responsible for this except for whoever did it. Doggett 
reasonably argues.

The deputys tirade continues. Look, I don't care who she is or what 
she is, she's not touching that body. We don't need her or her far-out 
theories. She's not welcome here. 

The deputy abruptly turns and walks away. 

Doggett rejoins Scully in the room, closing the door behind him. What 
happened to the lynch mob? she asks.

You hear all that?

I heard enough.

Doggett motions toward Abbott's body draped with a bloodstained sheet. 
Things have taken a little turn.

Scully disagrees. I dont think so.

Did you find something?

Scully walks to the other body in the room and pulls back the sheet 
partway, revealing the scorched, mutilated remains of a woman. This is 
Ariel Stefaniuk. The body Detective Abbott exhumed. 

Doggett doesn't bother to conceal his distaste. 

Look familiar? Scully queries. 

Off his non-answer, she continues, Her wounds are the same. The manner 
of death is the same. The same lack of forensic evidence...no hairs, 
fibers or saliva. I have a feeling when I examine the detective's 
remains I'm going to find the same thing. Somehow, these victims are 
all connected. 

Agent Scully... Doggett begins but Scully cuts him off. 

Youve got Andrew Stefaniuk killed by his brother Ernie in what is 
arguably a hunting accident. Schaefer signs off on the case with a 
highly questionable cause of death and Abbott accepts the findings 
without a thorough investigation. Ariel Stefaniuk, wife of Ernie 
Stefaniuk, is violently killed a couple of weeks later. Again, no 
autopsy, no investigation. She ticks off each victim on her fingers. 
Then George Schaefer, the coroner of record for Andrew Stefaniuk and 
Ariel Stefaniuk, is killed in the same manner as Mrs. Stefaniuk. No 
forensic evidence on Schaefers body and Abbott was ready to close the 
case with an animal attack for the cause of death.

Scully pauses in her narrative and walks back to the large body draped 
with a bloodstained sheet. She uncovers the body of the big detective. 
The wounds are clearly the same as those on Mrs. Stefaniuk and 
Schaefer. 

She gestures toward the body. Now youve got the investigator for both 
Andrew and Ariel Stefaniuk and George Schaefer. Do you sense a pattern 
here?

So, youre saying it all goes back to Andrew Stefaniuks death? 

I think Andrew Stefaniuk was murdered by his brother Ernie...and that 
for whatever reasons...partisanship, family money, ineptitude, 
whatever, Schaefer and Abbott failed to do their jobs properly. And I 
also found something else very interesting. In the first case report, 
verified by his medical records, Scully moves to the counter and picks 
up a folder. Andrew Stefaniuk was born with a very interesting birth 
defect. He only had four toes on his left foot.

You're not saying...wait a minute, Agent Scully...are you asking me to 
believe Andrew Stefaniuk is responsible for these killings? He crosses 
his arms. You think its some sort of vengeance from beyond the 
grave? Doubt laces Doggetts words.

Scully measures her response carefully. I cant find any scientific 
explanation for the condition of these bodies. Logically, its not 
possible and if it cant be explained scientifically, then a paranormal 
angle has to be considered. I think were looking at a manifestation of 
kinetic energy being used on everyone connected to the death of Andrew 
Stefaniuk.

Doggett rubs the back of his neck. He is struggling with Scullys 
theory. I dont know. Im having a hard time buying what youre 
selling. Ill admit theres a connection between Ariel Stefaniuk and 
George Schaefer but I cant quite believe Andrew Stefaniuks ghost or 
whatever you want to call it, is causing this. 

We can debate the finer points on our way out to the Stefaniuk 
residence. The time between victims seems to be accelerating; Ariel's 
death was a couple of weeks ago, Schaefer and Abbott, not even twenty-
four hours between them. As Scully speaks, she covers the gruesome 
bodies. She moves to the counter and begins to gather all the 
paperwork. 

She hands the folders to Doggett. Myron and Ernie Stefaniuk are the 
only surviving relatives. Either one could be the next victim.

************************

Slade River
Thursday: 12:57 a.m. 

The river carves a dark ribbon through the countryside. The gentle 
current laps softly at the ice-encrusted deadwood interspersed along 
its length. 

A propane lantern casts a bright circle of illumination on the young 
man kneeling on the bank, pulling a rope methodically toward him. 

The rope is wrapped around a large pulley that loops endlessly in a 
large circle out across the river to a long, narrow island. His motions 
are slow and unhurried. 

After a few minutes of steady pulling, he leans down and grounds a 
large raft. It bobs gently beside a small, two-seat boat equipped with 
a tiny trolling motor.

He turns when he hears a car approach. Headlights create a false 
daylight as the glow appears on the horizon and finally crawls over the 
small levee washing him in their brilliance. 

The man tenses as the vehicle slowly approaches, shielding his eyes as 
he squints to see the occupants. The car comes to a halt a short 
distance from him and the two agents get out.

As they approach, Doggett calls out, Mr. Stefaniuk?

He looks at them warily. Yeah?

Are you Myron or Ernie Stefaniuk?

I'm Myron. He is a tall, gangly-looking man clad in worn insulated 
overalls. A sweat-stained ball cap is perched on his head. Dirty blond 
hair peeks out in unruly tufts. He is in his late twenties but 
mannerisms and speech indicate his mental prowess lags behind his 
years. He becomes nervous when he sees Doggett's hand on his gun.

Scully gives a relieved sigh. You gave us a bit of a scare. We went to 
your home up the road and we couldn't find you.

Stefaniuk is curious. Why would you be scared?

Well, sir, we work with the FBI, Doggett says carefully, We have 
reason to believe that your life may be in danger.

I'm in danger? Stefaniuk's voice trembles slightly.

Well, we're conducting an investigation, sir, that we believe may be 
connected to the shooting death of your brother Andrew.

What about it? Whats that got to do with me? Stefaniuk looks 
confused.

It may just be your connection to Ernie. Scully makes an attempt at 
clarification.

My brother? But I wasn't even there when...when the accident 
happened, Stefaniuk replies, his voice is high-pitched. You're crazy. 
I don't know nothing about it. Just leave me alone. 

He shuffles away quickly and heads toward a battered pickup parked on 
the side of the dirt road. The engine turns over with a wheeze and the 
rear wheels spin as Stefaniuk guns the old truck up the road. The 
taillights disappear over the small hill. 

Scully looks at Doggett. Well...that reaction was a little extreme.

Doggett chuffs, No kidding. Let's see if we can find out why. 

*********************

Stefaniuk Residence
Thursday: 5:28 a.m.

The agents' rental car, its bulk one more shadow in the darkness, sits 
a short distance from the house. 

Scully is watching the house with binoculars. She watches Myron 
Stefaniuk leave the house and cross the yard to a weather-beaten barn. 
He pulls open the large sliding door and goes inside. 

She lowers the binoculars. You think he could leave out the back?

Doggett yawns. Nah, we'd hear that old heap he drives.

Scully stretches a little trying to alleviate the discomfort that comes 
from sitting in a car for a long period of time. You know, we've been 
out here for hours. We haven't seen or heard anything. She props an 
elbow on the car door and rests her head against her hand. 

After a few moments of silence she continues, Maybe I'm wrong. Doubt 
laces her voice. Maybe this is all just a...a grand coincidence and 
we're wasting our time out here. She waves a hand dismissively.

Doggett glances over. You rethinking the ghost thing? You were so sure 
before. 

Yeah, I was sure of the facts as I had deduced them, Scully's voice 
is bleak, Maybe I'm...I'm trying to force them into shape. Maybe I'm 
manufacturing a theory or Im just trying too hard.

To do what? Carry on Mulders work? He quietly asks.

She wills herself not to show a reaction as she gazes out the window. 
After a long moment she answers, I have to try. It cant end this 
way.

She looks over at Doggett. Her face is unreadable in the dark as she 
says, Mulders case is now inactive. Kersh informed Skinner and me 
yesterday morning. I was specifically ordered not to pursue it any 
further.   

Doggett carefully asks, Was he wasting his breath?

Scully doesnt answer. She looks down and toys with the strap on the 
binoculars.

Doggett turns slightly in his seat. Kersh will bounce you right out of 
the Bureau. Take it from me, that guy is a hard-ass.

Scully nods in agreement. I know he wouldnt hesitate for an instant 
but Ill have to take that chance. Im too close to stop now. Too close 
to finding the truth.

And then what?

Then Ill bring those responsible to justice. She twists the strap 
around her hand, pulling it tight. One way or the other.

Doggett says earnestly, Look, Agent Scully, dont lose yourself in 
this. If you feel youre getting too close to the edge, step back. I 
know; Ive been there. Youve got too much at stake, too much to lose. 
Dont be afraid to walk away before its too late.

She replies in a firm voice, Walking away is not an option. Not now. 
Too much has been lost. It has to end.

The resolve in her voice signals that the discussion is over. She 
unwinds the strap from her hand and raises the binoculars and resumes 
her surveillance.

************************

A short time later, the old pickup wheezes to life, exits the barn and 
rumbles down the narrow road toward the river. Doggett and Scully 
follow in their vehicle, headlights off, the car's engine noise masked 
by the racket of the old truck. 

Doggett stops the car on the opposite side of the small hill and the 
two agents move quickly down toward the river. 

Their presence is undetected as Stefaniuk parks his truck close to the 
raft he had grounded earlier. He gets out and walks around to the back 
of the truck, lowering the tailgate.

Doggett's voice startles him. You must not get much sleep at night, 
Mr. Stefaniuk.

What...what do you mean? What do you want? I told you I don't know 
nothing.

Scully takes out a flashlight and shines it over the contents in the 
bed of the truck. What's so important in here it has to be moved 
before morning? Where is this stuff going?

Doggett glances where her light is shining. Looks to me to be 
supplies. Who're these for, Mr. Stefaniuk?

Scully picks up the thread of questioning. Where is your brother, Mr. 
Stefaniuk? Where is Ernie? 

Despite the chill weather, a light sheen of sweat appears on Myron's 
brow. I don't...I...what do you want with him? What do you want from 
me?

Scully urges, We want to know the truth. We want to know why everyone 
connected with Andrew's death is being killed. Why is that, Mr. 
Stefaniuk? What really happened that day?

Stefaniuk is unnerved. I don't know...I wasn't even there...they 
said...Ernie said it was an accident...

You know where Ernie is, don't you? That's what all this is for. She 
waves a hand at the cargo of supplies. We need to know where he is. 
Scully's voice is sharp.

Stefaniuk bows his head, shaking it remorsefully. The words tumble from 
his mouth. Ernie and Andy used to argue all the time. They did growing 
up as kids...you know, kid stuff. Then, when Mom and Pop died, Ernie 
turned hateful...real hateful to Andy. Ernie kept saying the farm 
should have been his alone...cause he was the oldest. But it was put 
down we was to work it together...to share. That made Ernie mad...he 
said that it should have been just his. And then Ernie and Andy just 
kept getting worse, always fighting and stuff. 

Then one day, they go hunting...just like they did every year since 
they was both kids. I never got to go cause Mom said it wasn't safe for 
me to use a gun...see, I'm not the smartest, never was...anyway, they 
both went and only Ernie came back. He said it was an accident...an 
accident...and it must've been...cause nobody never said it wasn't.

Doggett interrupts, Did anyone ever say they thought Ernie was lying?

I don't know, nobody never said...I never asked. All I knew was Andy 
was dead. Ernie said if I just minded my own business I could stay here 
and help him. I didn't have nowhere else to go...Mom and Pop were gone, 
Andy was gone...I couldn't do nothing else...so I did what he said. 

Then when...when Ariel was killed...she was real mean and nasty...she 
put bad ideas into his head. Anyways, Ernie got scared. He talked to 
the police when she got killed. Then he got really scared, said he had 
to hide for a while. He told me not to tell.

Myron has his hands in the pockets of his coveralls, softly scuffing 
his boots in the dirt. He hangs his head. I only did what he asked me 
to...

Scully inclines her head to get Myron to look at her. Where is Ernie, 
Myron? We need to know. His life could be in danger. 

Myron's eyes swim with tears as he looks at Scully and nods his head 
slowly.

************************

Stefaniuk's Island
Thursday: 5:50 a.m.

The small boat laboriously makes its way across the river, its tiny 
trolling motor humming softly. Doggett steers the boat onto the edge of 
the island. Mindful of the unfamiliarity of the terrain, Scully steps 
out of the boat. After advancing a few paces, she drops to a crouch, 
her senses on the alert. Drawing her weapon, she waits while Doggett 
secures the boat. 

She keeps glancing around her, feeling exposed and vulnerable, as she 
waits for Doggett. After long, interminable minutes she hears Doggett 
as he carefully makes his way over to her, his footsteps crunching in 
the snow. Doggett crouches beside her, his own weapon drawn. 

Scully points to a path of trampled snow. Doggett nods and Scully takes 
the lead and begins to walk along the beaten trail.

A short distance from the river, the trail ends in a small clearing. 
The intermittent moonlight reflecting off the snow-covered ground 
provides a measure of illumination and the shadowy hulk of a ramshackle 
one-room cabin resting on short stilts becomes visible. A narrow wooden 
staircase leads up to the door. The windows are dark with tattered 
curtains drawn. An outhouse sits at the edge of the clearing, its door 
hanging crookedly ajar.

A squeak of rusty hinges draws their attention to the top of the 
stairs. They watch as a man in his late 40's emerges through the 
doorway and begins to make his way down the shaky staircase. He 
scratches at shaggy salt and pepper hair as his mouth opens in a wide 
yawn. Upon reaching the bottom of the stairs, he turns and slowly 
scuffs toward the outhouse.

Ernie Stefaniuk. FBI. We want to ask you a few questions. Doggett's 
authoritative voice rings out.

Stefaniuk gasps and whirls around, hand descending toward his 
waistband. Scully and Doggett raise their weapons, quickly assuming a 
defensive posture as Doggett yells, Freeze! Show me your hands! 

Stefaniuk stops and slowly raises his hands, palms out. He licks his 
lips nervously as the two agents rise and slowly approach. 

Ernie squints in the darkness. FBI? What do you want with me?

Scully captures his attention as Doggett moves forward slowly. We're 
conducting an investigation into a recent death, sir. We need to ask 
you a few questions.

Doggett retrieves the pistol tucked in Stefaniuk's belt. He puts it 
into the pocket of his overcoat as he backs up several paces.

Can't I go to the bathroom first? That's where I was headed, you 
know. Stefaniuk motions toward the dilapidated facility.

Doggett waves him over and halts Stefaniuk short of the door. He takes 
out his flashlight and gives a quick cursory inspection to the dank 
interior, his nose crinkling at the smell that wafts from the small 
enclosure. 

Scully follows both men, stopping a few feet behind Ernie. She watches 
him carefully for any sudden movements. 

Doggett steps back to allow Stefaniuk to enter the small hut to tend to 
his business. 

As Stefaniuk relieves himself, Doggett walks over to stand beside 
Scully, who remarks quietly, He's a little jumpy, don't you think?

Just slightly, Doggett says, as the forceful sound of Stefaniuk's 
evacuation continues unabated, Don't guess that he comes out much at 
night either.

Must not, Scully says absently as she glances around suddenly. 

What? Doggett asks as he looks in the same direction.

Nothing, she says dismissively. Just got a feeling that 
something... She shrugs as if warding off a chill. Nothing. 

She nods her head toward the outhouse. We should take him back across 
the river to the farm. I don't want to question him here. No telling 
how he might react.

Okay by me. Place gives me the creeps anyway.

Stefaniuk finally exits, wiping his hands on his pants. 

A slight grimace crosses Scully's face as she reaches for her 
handcuffs. Please turn around, Mr. Stefaniuk, we need to cuff you for 
your protection and for ours.

Stefaniuk looks for an instant as if he wants to argue the point but 
reconsiders, turning his back to Scully. Hands behind your back and 
interlace your fingers, please. 

Stefaniuk complies and Scully holsters her weapon. She grasps his 
entwined fingers with one hand and quickly snaps the cuffs into place.

Let's go, Mr. Stefaniuk. Doggett takes him by the arm.

Where to?

Back to the farm. We're going to get a hot cup of coffee and you're 
going to answer some questions for us.

Dont know why. I ain't done nothin, Stefaniuk mumbles.

Scully leads the way toward the path. That's what we're going to try 
to ascertain, sir.

Huh? 

Scully takes his arm and steers him toward the path as they head back 
toward the river. 

************************

Slade River
Thursday: 6:15 a.m.

The journey back to the riverbank takes less time than the previous 
trip. The darkness is gradually fading and makes the trek a little 
easier.

They arrive at the river's edge and Scully directs Stefaniuk to sit on 
the downed tree. 

Keeping him in her peripheral vision, she joins Doggett at the boat. 
She indicates it with a tilt of her chin. We cant all fit in here.

No kidding. Well, you and Ernie go first, Agent Scully. Send Myron 
back with the boat. Doggett looks at Ernie Stefaniuk briefly. Just 
watch yourself, he admonishes in a low voice. 

Scully nods in acknowledgement and motions Stefaniuk over to the boat. 

Doggett steadies it as Scully gets in first to sit at the rear. He 
gives a helping hand to Stefaniuk so the cuffed man doesn't fall over 
the side. 

Scully flicks the switch and the motor purrs to life. She turns the 
boat toward the distant shore. The craft slowly plows its way through 
the dark water that laps perilously close to the gunwales of the boat. 
The misty shoreline becomes clearer as they draw closer. 

Finally, Scully noses the boat into the bank. Stefaniuk awkwardly 
clambers out and watches sullenly as Scully disembarks. As she is tying 
the anchor rope to the beached raft, she notices Myron is missing, 
along with the rattletrap pickup. 

Damn, She mutters as she takes Stefaniuk by the arm to usher him to 
where the car is parked. 

As they begin to walk the short distance to the vehicle, Scully notices 
the utter silence. The air becomes heavy and oppressive. The fine hairs 
on the back of her neck stand up. 

Stefaniuk too, is unsettled. He starts to pull away from her. 

She gives a sharp yank on his arm to stop his movement. 

Stefaniuk's face turns ghostly white, his eyes wide, focusing on 
something behind her. 

Scully turns to see what has captured his attention. She is astonished 
at the sight of a glowing violet cloud rolling across the water.

Stefaniuk pulls his arm from her grasp and stumbles backwards. 

Scully makes a grab for him and misses, her attention divided between 
Stefaniuk's attempted retreat and the unnatural phenomenon approaching. 
She starts to draw her weapon, but stops when she realizes bullets will 
not stop this assailant.

Stefaniuk bolts, stark fear turned into hysteria. He steps into a 
pothole concealed by the snow and falls face-first, sprawling on the 
ground. 

Scully jogs over to him and reaches down to help him up. 

Stefaniuk's frantic movements to escape pull her off-balance and she 
goes down on one knee. A strangled scream escapes his throat. 

Scully turns and swallows a scream of her own. The cloud is almost upon 
them. 

She stands and positions herself between Stefaniuk and the entity. 

Inexplicably, it slows, and comes to a complete stop. It hovers in mid-
air as if assessing the obstacle before it.

What the hell? Scully whispers, Oh my God. She is awestruck as the 
cloud shifts its vapory layers and slowly morphs into the wavering 
image of a man. 

Ernie gives a startled yelp as the facial features come into shimmering 
view. The eyes are deep, black sockets; sunken cheekbones ring a mouth 
etched in eternal anger.

Ernie Stefaniuk emits a blood-curdling scream. Oh 
no...no...Andy...god, no...I'm sorry... 

Prone on the ground, Ernie slowly curls into a fetal position, 
whimpering and moaning, eyes tightly closed, the words of remorse and 
regret tumble haphazardly from his lips, I'm sorry...sorry...sorry... 

Scully thinks if she could afford the distraction, she would slap Ernie 
into silence but she is stunned into immobility at the breath-taking 
spectacle before her. A blast of hot air washes over her as she watches 
the apparition darken to a deep purple, its anger a palpable presence. 
It becomes a maelstrom of motion, gathering for its assault.

Suddenly, Scully whirls, grabs Ernie's shirt and shakes him roughly. 
What did you do to Andy? Tell me what you did!

Ernie opens his bloodshot, tear-filled eyes. He looks at the swirling 
violet spectacle and sobs loudly, I killed him! I killed Andy! Oh 
god...I killed him. The last of his words trail off to a trembling 
whisper. 

Scully releases his shirt and lets him fall back to the ground, a 
boneless heap. 

She stands and turns to face the roiling mass of colors. 

The dark purple phantom shimmers, glows vibrantly for a brief second 
and begins to fade, dissolving into a feathery mist that dissipates in 
the air.

Scully draws a steadying breath and looks expressionlessly at the 
huddled, whimpering form of Ernie Stefaniuk. She silently helps him to 
his feet and leads him to the car, securing him in the back seat. 

She leans tiredly against the trunk, takes out her cell phone and 
relays a short message to the operator and requests assistance from the 
state police.

************************
Journal of Dana Scully

On an emotional level I find that I fully empathize with the entity's 
desire for justice. The similarity of the goal is not lost on me. My 
need is becoming just as intense. The anger and pain caused by your 
loss has been fueled by the willful, deliberate dismissal of your case 
by Kersh. 

I will not delude myself with the notion that resolution will come 
swiftly but like the entitys patient elimination of those who 
grievously wronged him until the sin of his death was known, I will 
pursue and methodically find those who hide in the shadows of 
deception.

And like the entity, once I have found the truth, I know I must make a 
choice of what to do with it. Will I be satisfied to simply let justice 
be served or will I extract my own bloody vengeance? I am afraid... 

************************

X-Files Office
Thursday: 8:12 p.m.

I was hoping I wouldn't find you here. Skinner is standing in the 
doorway. 

Scully looks up from her laptop. She taps a few keys and furtively 
closes the cover.

Skinner walks into the office and closes the door. His expression 
reflects his concern. You look exhausted. Why aren't you at home?

I'm fine. She retrieves her briefcase and puts the laptop inside. I 
had a few things to finish. 

I was under the impression you finished your field report on the Idaho 
case, or is that a revision you were working on?

No. I mean, yes, the report is finished. I sent it to your office, 
she says absently, as she puts her files into the briefcase. 

I know, I read your report. Tell me, do you honestly believe in 
revenge from beyond the grave?

As I stated, in this instance, I can't prove nor disprove it. I know 
what I saw. 

But do you believe that someone who wants justice...wants it so badly, 
they wouldn't let anything, even their own death, stand in the way? he 
asks.

Scully stops her packing and faces Skinner. Are you speaking to me or 
to the case?

I mean, how far would someone be willing to go? He waves impatiently 
at the briefcase. How far are you willing to go? At what point will 
you step back?

I believe we've had this conversation, sir, she says flippantly.

Skinner swiftly advances until he is just inches from her. He leans 
toward Scully, his voice a harsh whisper, Yes, and we'll continue to 
have it until you understand I will not allow you to put yourself or 
others in harm's way.

Scully's whisper matches Skinner's, And you need to understand, I will 
not back off and I will not stop. I am going to find the truth, no 
matter what obstacles are put in my way. I will do whatever it takes.

Then I'm telling you again, you need to know where to draw the line 
and if you aren't able to make that determination, I'll be forced to do 
it for you, Scully.

The line was drawn the day I buried Mulder, she whispers venomously.

Skinner picks up the nameplate and brandishes it. What about how far 
Mulder would want you to go?

Scully takes the nameplate from Skinner and places it in the briefcase. 
She picks it up and walks to the door. She opens it and pauses in the 
doorway, turning to look back at Skinner. Her face is drawn and tired, 
but her gaze is sharp and unwavering.

Skinner sees a glimpse of something flash in her eyes as her monotone 
answer sends a chill down his spine.

I'll never be able to ask him.

***********************

The End
