From: "aka "Jake"" Date: Mon, 6 Sep 1999 19:48:55 -0400 Subject: X-Files Fanfic: The Coiled Serpent Source: direct Title: The Coiled Serpent (1/1) Author: aka "Jake" Rating: R (Language, Violence, Adult Themes, Sexual Situations) Classification: X (X-File) Spoilers: Pilot (only a vague reference) Keywords: Summary: Mulder and Scully pursue a psychokinetic killer with an overwhelming obsession for power and a deadly fixation on Scully. Unquenchable and seemingly unstoppable, the killer turns the tables on the FBI agents, and the hunters become the hunted. The Coiled Serpent by aka "Jake" Disclaimer: The characters Fox Mulder and Dana Scully are the property of Chris Carter, FOX and 1013 Productions. No copyright infringement intended. This is for fun, not profit. This story contains adult subject matter. Author's notes at end. THE COILED SERPENT _______________ University of Maine Anthropology Museum Orono, Maine December 31 4:32 PM Darren Linwood aimed his spray bottle at a glass display case and lightly misted the surface with blue-green cleanser. While he methodically wiped away the day's accumulation of fingerprints, he listened to the museum director talking with the head of the Anthropology Department in the next gallery. "The Northwest Coast carvings are arriving from British Columbia early tomorrow," Darren overheard Stanley Whitherspoon complain to his colleague Henry Addison. Whitherspoon was Director of the Anthropology Museum, a wispy man who considered himself to be over-burdened and exceptionally imposed-upon. "I've got six students coming in at 7:00 AM to help with the installation. But there is no way we're going to be ready to open this exhibit on Tuesday," Whitherspoon whined. Addison murmured something in response, but Darren couldn't make out the man's words. Grabbing a clean rag from his janitor's cart, Darren moved to the next display case in an effort to get closer and hear the two men more clearly. "There's so much left to do," Whitherspoon griped. "Mounts, labels, lighting. I simply need more help." "Borrow a couple of my grad assistants," Addison offered before heading toward the exit. He turned at the door, his eyes flicking to Darren. "If you 're desperate, you could ask Linwood to lend a hand," he suggested with a smirk and let himself out. "I could help you, Dr. Whitherspoon," Darren volunteered, nervously twisting his cleaning rag. The tall, dark-haired janitor scuffed into the neighboring gallery, his green eyes leveled hopefully on the slight director. "Shit," Whitherspoon hissed under his breath. "Uh...no thanks, Darren. I won 't be needing your assistance." "But I have experience with Northwest Coast artifacts. I catalogued the Tlingit materials two years ago," Darren reminded Whitherspoon. "I said no, Darren," Whitherspoon turned his back on the lanky janitor and pretended to study the thirty-foot-tall Haida totem pole towering against the far wall of the gallery. Darren Linwood had been a student at the University of Maine, pecking away at his doctoral thesis, for as long as Stanley Whitherspoon could remember. Fifteen years ago, when Whitherspoon had moved to Maine to take the position as museum director, Darren was a twenty-five year old graduate student in the University's Anthropology Department, struggling to make ends meet and earn his PhD. Whitherspoon had been sympathetic at the time and had helped Darren get the job as the museum's janitor. But the director's compassion had dissipated long ago. After evaluating Darren's unfocused and quirky attempts at an academic thesis year after year, Whitherspoon was fed up. In his opinion, the perpetual student simply had no aptitude for scholarly research. He had become an irritating thorn in Whitherspoon's side and a laughingstock in the Anthropology Department. "Uh...Dr. Whitherspoon? Has the committee made their decision about my thesis yet?" Darren anxiously asked, causing Whitherspoon to groan inwardly. He spun to face the expectant man. "Yes, Darren. The committee has rejected your thesis. Again," the director answered bluntly. He had given up worrying about Darren Linwood's feelings years ago. Experience had taught him that Darren was too socially inept to notice the difference between tactful consideration and brutal, unvarnished honesty, so he no longer made any effort to let the insensible man down gently. "But...why?" Darren looked perplexed. "Because we all felt your essay on kundalini energies had more in common with a Psychic Network infomercial than with a doctoral thesis on Eastern religious cultures. It was crap, Darren. Why don't you just give up?" Whitherspoon's impatience had escalated his inherently nasal tone to a high-pitched bleat. "We're all tired of wading through your half-baked theories about psychic acrobatics. Parapsychology is not a legitimate theme for a serious doctoral candidate. At least not in this department. Anthropology is the science of human culture, Darren. . You're wasting our time if you continue to espouse the popular notions of New Age mysticism and presume the committee will lend academic credence to your outlandish conjectures. It's nothing but trash, Darren. The sooner you face it, the better for all of us." "But, the psychokinesis studies at Princeton indicated..." "Hogwash! The PEAR Laboratory demonstrated only an extremely minute possibility that the human mind may be capable of skewing the output of electronic number generators. They never claimed that people have the ability to move heavy objects, or even bend spoons, with their minds. You're touting nothing more than sleight-of-hand parlor tricks. Levitation, table-tipping or exerting any type of influence over static matter by thought-waves alone is impossible. The very idea is absurd." Whitherspoon threw up his hands in exasperation and stalked away from Darren. "I've got work to do, Darren. Go home," he irritably dismissed the dumbfounded janitor. Blatantly ignoring Darren's presence, the museum director proceeded to withdraw a pair of white cotton gloves from his pocket and, donning the gloves, he carefully lifted a small Potlatch bowl off the display platform. Delicately, he ran a thumb across the abalone inlay. Darren felt the heat of humiliation uncoil at the base of his spine and rise incrementally up his back until beads of sweat broke out across his forehead. A terrible rush of anger followed the wave of his embarrassed shame. He glared at Witherspoon's meager figure and aimed an unstoppable fury at a spot between the director's puny shoulder blades. Whitherspoon jerked when he felt the floor quaver. Astounded, he watched a collection of miniature totem poles tremble and dance across the display platform in front of him. Earthquakes were rare in Maine, but that was his first thought. One of the tiny poles teetered and fell. From the back wall of the gallery, a low rumble caught Whitherspoon's attention and he watched in frozen astonishment as the enormous Haida totem pole lift from its base to hover inexplicably several feet above the floor. The thirty-foot wooden house post weighed nearly a ton but floated incredibly in midair. Terror gripped Whitherspoon when the mammoth pole abruptly sped across the gallery, only to freeze in a position directly above his head. The post hung over his bewildered, upturned face for a fraction of a second, just long enough for him to view its unpainted underside, before it dropped with a thunderous crash, collapsing the director like an empty soda can beneath its tremendous weight. A growing pool of blood oozed across the fractured marble floor at the base of the still vertical pole. Darren silently wheeled his janitor's cart to the storage closet and stowed his cleaning supplies. He retrieved his faded UMaine cap from its hook on the wall. Absently, he swiped a lock of dark hair away from his brow before adjusting the hat to the crown of his head. Ignoring Whitherspoon's crushed body when he crossed back through the museum to the front entrance, Darren activated the building's security system and stepped out into the cold, winter night. _______________ University of Maine Anthropology Museum Orono, Maine One week later 4:40 PM Darren wound the electrical cord around the wet-vac and eyed the two FBI agents in the adjacent gallery. He watched the tall, lanky man energetically pace the distance from the Haida totem pole, reset in its rightful position against the back wall, to the center of the room where he then squatted to make some mental calculations. The agent ran his palm lightly across the cracked floor. Although the blood had been washed from the marble surface days ago, a pinkish stain still shadowed the light-colored stone. Several yards away, the agent's diminutive red-haired partner stood reviewing the crime scene photographs, her pretty lipsticked mouth pursed in concentration. Darren ogled her small, curving figure and her shapely stockinged legs. His eyes followed her as she slowly crossed the room to join her partner, her heels clicking against the glassy floor, echoing an unhurried rhythm through the quiet museum. "Amazing," she stated without emotion and thrust the top photo under her crouching partner's nose. "Gives new meaning to the phrase 'low man on the totem pole,' doesn't it, Scully?" he smiled ruefully and rose to his feet. "Mulder, where's this Dr. Addison we're supposed to meet?" she asked with mild irritation. "Right here. Sorry to keep you waiting," Henry Addison hurried into the gallery, flustered and out-of-breath. He extended a hand to Mulder. "Special Agent Fox Mulder. This is my partner, Dana Scully." Mulder shook the man's hand. "Can you describe for us exactly what happened here last Friday?" "Well, I didn't witness it myself. Thank God," the Department Head grimaced. "When I left Stan around 4:30, he was still alive. He planned to work most of the weekend installing the museum's new Northwest Coast exhibit...here in this room. The exhibit's grand opening was scheduled for Tuesday. For obvious reasons, we've delayed the show...at least until you've completed your investigation. I don't mean to sound callous, but how long do you think you'll be? I've got a shipment of Northwest Coast artifacts in storage waiting to be installed and I'm sure Stanley would want us to proceed with the exhibit." "There's no reason to wait," Mulder told the man. "Your activities here won' t interfere with our investigation." "Great," Addison said with obvious relief. "Our funders are very anxious to open this exhibit." "Dr. Addison, who found Whitherspoon's body?" Scully asked as she tucked the crime photos into a manila folder clearly labeled with a bright red X. "Sherri Pulaski. She's a work-study student. Senior with a minor in Museum Studies. She had planned to help Stan unpack and catalog the incoming artifacts. Uh...I brought her phone number, in case you wanted to question her," Addison pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and handed it to Scully. "What time did she arrive at the museum?" Scully slid the girl's phone number into the file folder with the photos. "Around 6:45 Saturday morning. The shipment of artifacts was due to arrive shortly after 7:00. Stan had lined up six of his own students, plus two of my grad assistants, to help him unload and organize the exhibit materials. Sherri was the first to arrive." "Her lucky day," Mulder commented. "How'd she get in? Isn't the museum locked and alarmed?" "Sure it is. But the student workers each have keys and pass codes for the alarm system's keypad. Sherri used her own key and disabled the alarm before going into the gallery." "What did she do when she found Whitherspoon?" "Called Campus Security. Then the cops called me and I arrived around 7:15. Sherri was hysterical and I can hardly blame her. What a mess. Stan was crushed beneath the pole. Blood was all over the floor. And it was damn startling to see the totem pole out of place," Addison gestured at the towering Haida house post. "How do you think the totem pole came to be in the middle of the room?" Mulder queried. "That pole weighs almost a ton. A ton! You wouldn't believe the equipment and manpower it took to get the thing back where it belongs, where you see it now. I can't imagine how it ended up in the center of the room...with Stanley under it." Addison glanced at the stain of blood. "Uh...is there anything else you need from me, Agent Mulder?" "Yes, I'd like the names of the students who have keys to the museum," Mulder told Addison, handing him a business card. "And I have one more question. Were you here alone with Dr. Whitherspoon just before his death?" "Actually, no," Addison answered. "I left Stanley with Darren Linwood." "Darren Linwood?" "Yes. He's right over there," Addison gestured at the janitor in the next room. The lanky custodian was distressed to see Addison and the two FBI agents staring at him. He nervously licked his lips when Mulder beckoned him with the fingers of one hand. Clearing his throat, he shuffled hesitantly over to the threesome. "C-can I help you with something?" Darren asked uneasily. "Are you Darren Linwood?" Scully queried. "Uh...yes, ma'am," Darren politely removed his faded UMaine cap and gawked with undisguised fascination at Scully's glossy red lips. "I'm Agent Scully and this is Agent Mulder. We're with the FBI and we're investigating the death of Stanley Whitherspoon. We'd like to ask you a few questions, if we may." "Uh...sure. Yeah. Go ahead. But I don't think there's much I can tell you." Darren clutched and twisted the cap in his hands. "Dr. Addison tells us he left Stanley Whitherspoon with you last Friday night. Mr. Linwood, is it true you were the last person to see Dr. Whitherspoon alive?" Scully focused her blue eyes intently on Darren, causing him to blush under her scrutiny. He felt shabby next to the well-dressed agents. "Well, I dunno if I was the last, but I was here with Dr. Whitherspoon when Dr. Addison left," Darren explained, glancing briefly at the Department Head. "Dr. Whitherspoon asked me to help him with the new exhibit. Told me to come back in the morning to catalog artifacts. He said he would lock up when he was finished. I put away my cleaning gear. When I left, Dr. Whitherspoon was still working in the gallery." "What time was that?" "A little before five, I think." "You didn't see anyone else in the museum at that time?" "No, ma'am." "You say Dr. Whitherspoon asked you to help him catalog artifacts for the exhibit?" Mulder asked, perplexed. "Yes. I'm a student here. In the Anthropology Department -- a doctoral candidate. The janitor job helps me pay for school," Darren eagerly explained, wanting the agents to know he was an educated man, not merely a down-in-the-heels proletariat. "Darren recently submitted his eleventh thesis," Henry Addison snickered with open disdain. "I think he's going for a record." Darren paled at the Department Head's derisive tone. "What was it this time, Darren? 'Kundalini Energies: The Role of Psychokinesis in the Religion of Eastern Cultures?'" "Wasn't that your thesis, Mulder?" Scully murmured. "You wrote about psychokinesis and kundalini energies?" Mulder asked Darren, intrigued. "Yeah. Many Asian religions support the idea that all energy transactions in the physical universe are governed and controlled by the mystical force called kundalini," Darren began excitedly. "In the classical literature of Kashmir Shaivism, kundalini is described in three different manifestations. The first of these is..." "Please, Darren. Spare us. The committee has rejected your thesis," Addison groaned. "Rejected it? Why is that?" Mulder wanted to know. "Because the supposition that the mind can move objects from one place to another is groundless," Addison looked at Mulder as if any two-year-old could have grasped the point and come to the same conclusion. "Groundless?" It was Mulder's turn sound incredulous. "Interesting choice of words. Many people believe it's possible to psychically manipulate the physical universe." "Many people are crackpots, Agent Mulder. We study the science of anthropology here, not the science fiction of New Age mysticism." "I could loan you a copy of my thesis, if you're interested, Agent Mulder," Darren interrupted, pleased to have discovered a kindred spirit in the FBI man. "I have an extra at my apartment. I live only half a mile away. On Park Street." "Let's go," Mulder agreed. "Mulder," Scully interjected, feeling as though the investigation was taking an unnecessary tangent. "It's on the way to the hotel, Scully." Mulder curled his fingers around Scully's upper arm and steered her toward the exit. "Can we give you a lift, Mr. Linwood?" _______________ Darren Linwood's Apartment Orono, Maine 5:24 PM Darren stumbled out of the back seat of the agents' rental car before Mulder had shut off the engine. In an old-fashioned attempt at chivalry, the lanky janitor opened Scully's door and held out his hand to help her from the car. "Watch the ice," Darren warned. "It's kinda slippery." Darren led the agents to the front door of a dilapidated two-story building, digging deeply into the pocket of his jeans for his key. He fumbled for a moment with the lock. Finally he managed to unfasten the deadbolt and swing the door inward. The smell of last week's garbage and an over-full cat box assailed the agents' nostrils in the dingy front hall. "Upstairs," Darren directed. The stairs creaked in protest as the three ascended the ancient flight of steps. At the top, Darren wrestled with a second lock under the scant light of a bare, twenty-five-watt bulb dangling loosely from its wires in the ceiling overhead. "Come on in." Darren crossed the tiny room and flicked on a lamp before disappearing through a door to his left. Scully scanned the incommodious space, noting the piles of text books, magazines and newspapers stacked haphazardly around the floor of the livingroom. Two sets of bookshelves against the far wall were so overloaded, all the shelves bent perilously downward under the excessive weight. The only furniture in the cluttered room was a scuffed leather sofa and a square coffee table, both littered with papers, dirty dishes and unidentifiable articles of clothing. In the back corner, a fish tank bubbled beneath a poster depicting a hovering UFO and proclaiming "I WANT TO BELIEVE." "My God. This could be your place, Mulder," Scully told her partner in an amused, low voice. "Naw, this is nicer," Mulder lifted a newsletter off the arm of the couch and held it up for Scully to see. The familiar banner of the Lone Gunman was plainly visible beneath a series of brown coffee rings. "All the comforts of home, Scully." "Here's my thesis," Darren announced as he reentered the room and handed Mulder a hefty sheaf of papers. "I'd really appreciate hearing your comments once you've had a chance to read it. Can I get either of you anything? Coffee? Water? Uh...coffee? That's all I have, I'm afraid," Darren smiled awkwardly. "I don't get much company. Too busy studying," he added quickly so they wouldn't get the impression he was, in fact, friendless. "No. Thank you," Scully declined his offer of beverage. "Agent Mulder and I have to be going." She looked hopefully at Mulder but found he was already absorbed in Darren Linwood's text. "Mulder?" "Hmm?" Mulder's eyes never left the pages of the manuscript. "We have to go, Mulder." Scully placed her hand on his sleeve to ensure she had his attention. "Hotel check-in," she reminded him. "Huh? Oh, yeah," he mumbled distractedly, still reading. She tugged him gently toward the door. "Thank you, Mr. Linwood," Scully politely expressed appreciation on Mulder's behalf. "You've obviously made his day." Her comment caused Darren's face to light up with delightful pride. She noticed he was really rather handsome when he smiled, in a cerebral, unkempt sort of way. She suspected, however, that he did not smile often. _______________ University Motor Inn Orono, Maine 6:42 PM "It's open," Mulder responded to Scully's soft knock. She entered his hotel room to find him sprawled on his bed, pillows stacked behind his shoulders, and Darren's thesis spread across the blankets. He had managed to slough out of his suit coat and remove his tie -- both hung haphazardly over the seat of a nearby chair -- and his shoes lay in a tangle beside the bureau. Other than that, he was unchanged from an hour ago when Scully had dropped him off at his room. "You're not ready," Scully observed with impatience. "This is really very good." Mulder continued to read. He patted the mattress, inviting Scully to join him on the bed. "Darren Linwood is actually an intelligent guy." "If he's so intelligent and his thesis is so good, why did the doctoral committee reject it?" Ignoring the bed, she headed for the chair. She lifted his coat and tie from the seat and laid them carefully across her lap when she sat. Idly, she rolled his tie into a neat cylinder. "They rejected it because they possess a close-minded, academic point of view that doesn't allow them to consider extreme possibilities unless those possibilities can be rigidly quantified by science. They've got their heads stuck so far up their asses that..." he paused to look at her, his face reddening. "Oops. Sorry." He wasn't apologizing for his language. He knew Scully had grown up in a family of sailors and could swear with the best of them. No, he realized too late that he had insulted Scully's own strict adherence to scientific analysis, her unbending need to uncover incontrovertible evidence in order to explain any mystery. "Uh...I didn't mean to imply that have your head up your ass," he back-peddled. "But, obviously, that's where mine is. Uh...up sorry ass, I mean. Anyway..." "What is it about Darren's thesis that has you so captivated, Mulder?" She arched an eyebrow at him. He shifted on the bed and leaned toward her. "He's written about parapsychology, particularly psychokinesis, the ability of the human mind to move stationary objects without the aid of physical contact." "So?" She unrolled his tie and absently stroked the smooth strip of silk with her index finger. "So, isn't that a coincidence?" "In what respect?" "In that the One-Ton-Totem mysteriously traveled a distance of more than forty feet, ending up on the Museum Director's head." "What does that have to do with Darren Linwood?" "Need I remind you that he and Whitherspoon were alone together in the gallery just before the director's fatal Excedrin headache?" "You're not implying that Darren transported the pole with his mind, murdering Dr. Whitherspoon, are you?" "That's exactly what I'm implying. Here, read for yourself," Mulder tossed her a section of the scattered thesis and rose from the bed. "I'm gonna clean up." "Mulder, why do you place any credence in Darren's thesis? The man is an eleven-time loser." "There but for the grace of God..." Mulder drew his shirt over his head, tossed it onto the bed and disappeared behind the bathroom door. Scully heard the water splashing into the sink and looked down at the manuscript in her hands. She shifted Mulder's coat and tie to the bed and began reading. Scully had heard about the controversial research conducted at PEAR. She also knew about American parapsychologist J. B. Rhine's psychokinetic experiments conducted at Duke University in North Carolina in 1934, described by Darren Linwood in the next paragraph. And she was familiar with American physicist Helmut Schmidt's PK testing in the late 1960s as well. In his thesis, Darren explained how Helmut had created an apparatus known as the "electronic coin flipper" that operated on the principal that the random decay of radioactive particles emitted rays at rates unaffected by temperature, pressure, electricity, magnetism or chemical change and were thus completely unpredictable and could not be manipulated by fraud. In Helmut's experiments, subjects were asked to exert their mental energies on flipping coins in an attempt to make the coins come up heads or tails. Some test subjects actually managed to successfully influence the coin toss. The electronic coin flipper became a prototype for random event generators, computerized techniques that continued to play a major role in both ESP and PK testing. Scully knew that despite years of testing, the validity of PK claims could not be established. PK achievements were so miniscule, they were practically immeasurable. She remained skeptical and skipped ahead in the manuscript. Scully was getting bored. She didn't agree with Darren's unfounded analogy between human thought and a cue stick. And she certainly didn't believe Darren, or anyone else for that matter, had psychokinetically killed Stanley Whitherspoon with the museum's Haida totem pole. "So, whaddaya think?" Mulder asked when he emerged from the bathroom, his voice momentarily muffled as he pulled a clean turtleneck over his head. "I don't lend credibility to any of it." Scully rose from her seat. "Let's go eat." "You don't believe in mind over matter?" "Does that surprise you?" "Well. Yeah, actually. After reading all the scientific evidence from Princeton, I thought you'd at least consider the possibility that a stationary object can be influenced by human thought." He blocked her way to the door. "I'm having a thought right now, Mulder." She fastened her steely eyes on his. He leapt into action, opening the door and stepping out into the hall. "See, Scully. If you put your mind to it, you can move mountains." _______________ College Avenue Orono, Maine 7:16 PM Mulder hit the car breaks and came to a stop one more time in the long line of bumper-to-bumper traffic flowing slowly along College Avenue. "What do you suppose is going on?" Scully asked, trying to see past the SUV blocking their progress and her view. Mulder shrugged. He watched a uniformed police officer direct car after car into a snowy parking lot up ahead. When the agents finally inched past a small sign announcing "Hockey parking: $3.00," Mulder realized they were stuck in jam of sports enthusiasts on their way to the evening's big game. "Musta taken a wrong turn into hockey country," he observed impatiently and drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. "Why don't you just lift the car with your psychic powers and float us up and over the traffic?" she suggested, the beginning of a smile tugging at her lips. He ignored her comment. Stopping at a crosswalk, he allowed a stream of hockey fans to hurry to the other side of the slushy street. One rowdy young fan, his face painted blue and white, yelled at the top of his lungs "We're number one!" before aiming a snowball at the car that exploded wetly across their windshield. Mulder flicked on the wipers, clearing away the ice and snow. When he could see through the glass once more, he noticed Darren Linwood trailing the pack of hockey devotees, his UMaine cap pulled low over his ears and his shoulders hunched against the bitter cold night air. "Hey, Scully. You ever been to a hockey game?" he smiled and abruptly steered the car into the crowded parking lot. "Muuulllderrr," she groaned his name. "What about dinner?" "We'll eat at the rink." _______________ Alfond Ice Arena University of Maine Orono, Maine 7:29 PM "Here," Scully handed Mulder a steaming paper box and a fork. She slid into the narrow seat beside him. "This place is packed. How much did you have to pay for tickets to get in here?" "Never mind." He peeked into the box of food. "What is this?" "A Maine baked potato," she passed him a bottle of water. "I asked for nachos." "I put cheese and salsa on yours. Think of it as a taco 'tater." She opened her own box and jabbed her fork into her dinner. "What do you have on yours?" he eyed her potato with suspicion. "Broccoli and shredded carrots. Wanna trade?" "Ee-yuck. No thanks," he grimaced at the idea. "You really know how to live it up, Scully." the sound system blared and the crowd responded by rising to their feet and exuberantly bellowing their support for the home team. The din was earsplitting. Cheers transformed into jeers as the announcer read the Wildcat roster. Mulder scanned the sold-out arena, looking for Darren Linwood among the throng of six thousand screaming fans. He finally located the janitor up in the balcony, crammed between the school's pep band and a large contingent of students wearing blue t-shirts emblazoned with the word "Mainiacs." Darren stood chanting and waving his fists in synchronized rhythm with the rest of the frenzied onlookers. "Mat-tee! Mat-tee! Mat-tee!" the assembly chanted. "Mulder, why are we here?" Scully hollered directly into her partner's ear in an effort to be heard above the clamor. "Darren's here," Mulder tilted his head toward the balcony. Scully searched the upper rows, disregarding an older man dangling a string of colanders on a fishing pole directly above the visiting goalie's head, a group of girls dancing the Macarena and five shirtless students, each with a single blue letter painted on his bare chest, collectively spelling out the word "MAINE." She finally spotted Darren in the balcony's front row, leaning precariously over the railing and screaming "Sieve! Sieve! Sieve!" at the New Hampshire goalie below. "Mulder, why do we care if Darren Linwood is a hockey fan?" "We don't. I just wanna watch him." "M-A-I-N-E! Goooo Blue!" the crowd shouted in unison as the referee dropped the puck at center ice. In a flurry of sticks and skates, Maine came away with the puck and headed down the ice toward the New Hampshire goal. "I'm going for a walk, Scully. See if I can get closer to Darren." "Mul..." but he was out of his seat and halfway down the row before she could finish. She closed her mouth and turned her attention back to the game. New Hampshire had gained control and was headed back toward the blue line. "Off sides!" she yelled just before the whistle blew. "Good call, lady!" a little kid in an oversized Maine jersey beamed at her from several seats away. Scully kept one eye on the game and one eye on Mulder. He had circled the arena and climbed the stairs to the balcony. He positioned himself next to a post, a little behind and to the left of Darren. Scully noticed that Mulder was now wearing a UMaine cap. She had to admit, it helped him blend in. She heard the whistle blow and the crowd was once again on their feet. Maine's number thirty-six was laying face down on the ice by the far boards. A collective boo rose to a fevered pitch around the rink. When the player didn 't rise to his feet, the athletic trainer jumped from the Maine bench onto the ice and jogged over to the downed young man. The crowd fell silent. Eerily silent. You could have heard a pin drop. Scully watched the trainer go through some quick evaluation procedures. After several minutes, he helped number thirty-six stiffly to his feet. The crowd broke into applause when the trainer led the shaky player back to the Maine bench. Scully knew the kid wasn't too badly hurt; he would have been sent to the locker room if his injuries had been serious. Obviously, the crowd disagreed with the call. Angry cries, opposing the referee's decision, asserted the infraction was a more serious "boarding" penalty. The onlookers loudly demanded the New Hampshire player be thrown out, dismissed from the game. Scully glanced up at Mulder in the balcony and saw his attention was focused on Darren and not the activity on the ice. Fifteen more minutes of fast play passed without a point being scored. The fans, still fuming over the earlier penalty call, were restless for a goal. the announcer intoned. The two teams positioned themselves for a face-off in the New Hampshire zone. Maine's number thirty-six and New Hampshire's number twenty-two were back on the ice, exchanging insults. The entire arena pulsed with the tumult of several thousand ardent fans eager to see the home team score before the end of the period. The fans in the balcony were on their feet, craning over the rail to get a better view of the UNH goal below them. Darren felt the crush of bodies beside him, behind him. The colossal, unrelenting noise surged in his ears.