From: "Robert M. Thomas" Date: Thu, 11 Nov 1999 14:16:21 -0500 Subject: X-Files fan fiction: DEVIL'S ROAR Source: direct Title: Devil's Roar (1/1) Author: aka "Jake" Rating: R (Violent Themes) Classification: XR (X-File/Romance -- Mulder and Scully of course) Spoilers: The Host; Revelations; All Souls; Terms of Endearment; minor or vague references to several other episodes through season 6 Keywords: Summary: Mulder and Scully go up against their most formidable foe when they travel to Blue Hollow, Maine, to investigate five mysterious murders. Will Scully be able to save Mulder and herself from the evil of a demon as old as mankind? Devil's Roar by aka "Jake" Disclaimer: The characters Fox Mulder, Dana Scully and Walter Skinner are the property of Chris Carter, FOX and 1013 Productions. No copyright infringement intended. This is for fun, not profit. This story contains violent themes. Author's notes at end. DEVIL'S ROAR Yep, so I think today is going to be an ordinary day. Well, as ordinary a day as one can expect when you work in the FBI's X-Files Division with Special Agent Fox Mulder, a.k.a., "Spooky." My partner. Going on seven years. Predictably, Mulder is already in our office when I arrive, despite the fact that I'm punctual to a fault and manage to step through our basement office door at 0800 hours on the dot -- give or take zilch -- every single day. Also predictably, Mulder's mood is infuriatingly chipper; he is a literal whirling dervish of energy busting at the seams while I apparently move in an alternate universe where life progresses at half the speed and requires at least two cups of coffee before a conversation may be initiated. A very civilized alternate universe, I like to think. "Hey, sunshine, don't take off that coat," he warns before I can slip the trenchcoat from my shoulders. His slanting grin sets off warning bells in my lethargic brain. Hoo boy, that man looks handsome when he smiles and it's way too early in the day for me to be thinking such things. So I give him my best I-don't-trust-you glare, which is really a waste of time because not only is Mulder somehow immune to my most powerful glowering stares, the fact is, I trust him. After all the things we've seen and been through together, I trust him implicitly. He responds to my glare by holding out what appears to be plane tickets. I respond to his tickets by raising my eyebrows. Speaking isn't an option yet -- no second cup of coffee has passed my lips. "Blue Hollow, Maine," he says proudly, as if those three little words are an explanation in and of themselves. My eyebrows climb higher, if that's possible. "Maine?" I manage to rasp, my vocal chords aching desperately for caffeine. "Right now?" "Yep. Plane leaves in half an hour." I'm forced to try out my I-don't believe-you glare, which, as usual, is as completely ineffective on Mulder as the I-don't-trust-you look. It is with great regret that I realize that he realizes that I do, in fact, believe in him with a passion that is so foolhardy, it might be considered by some to be suicidal. But, there you go. The fact is, I do believe in him. And I trust him. And I would follow him to the ends of the earth. Someday, I may take the time to explore the twisted psychology of our peculiar relationship, but today...today I'm going to Blue Hallow, Maine. Mulder, gentleman that he is, straightens my coat neatly across my shoulders before he opens our office door and guides me over the threshold; his fingers lightly caress the small of my back -- an action that would get any other man a swift kick to the groin. But, from Mulder, these chivalrous gestures are not just tolerated, they are welcomed. Anticipated, even. Besides, I know he likes to touch me and he knows I know. Our mutual knowledge of his tactile propensity goes verbally unacknowledged. The physical acknowledgement (mine) persists, but in secret. I hope. "Stop at Starbucks," I order him in a slurry voice, my tongue not yet ready to start the day. He says nothing, but his shit-eating grin brings back my useless but unstoppable I-don't-trust-you glare. _____________ Well, we don't stop at Starbucks. There isn't time. Mulder drives us directly to the airport where we hurry aboard an itsy-bitsy ComAir puddle-jumper that seats about thirty. I sit by the window; Mulder gets the aisle -- that way he can occasionally stretch out his long legs when the flight attendant isn't patrolling the cabin with her beverage cart. When the beverage cart does arrive, the flight attendant hands me a welcome, albeit tasteless, cup of coffee. I draw on it like a baby on a bottle while I review Mulder's case notes. Mulder forgoes the coffee, which is a good thing. He's already as hyper as a busload of second graders let loose in Toys R Us on Christmas Eve. He's tapping his fingers annoyingly on the seatback in front of him, drumming out a rhythmless staccato that is bound to earn him a black eye from the man who looks like a pro-wrestler sitting in the unfortunate forward seat. But Mulder doesn't seem to notice and keeps on tapping away, frenetically arranging and rearranging himself in his own seat. I put a stop to his excited movements by placing my hand lightly on his upper thigh. His upper, upper thigh. That certainly gets his attention, abruptly freezing him like a statue. Realizing what is going on, he looks a little embarrassed. He manages to settle down a bit and I find it easier to concentrate on his notes. I quickly try to read the file before the intermission in Mulder's percussion recital comes to a close and he begins beating out an encore to Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer. <420 Riverside Drive, Blue Hollow, Maine> When I get to the part about the wastewater purification facility, I groan. "Not another flukeman?" I plead with my partner. "No, not another flukeman," he chuckles, the sound reverberating a little too seductively in his chest. To distract myself from his sexy laugh and the all-too-explicit mental image it creates in my head, I take a close look at Arthur Talbot's photograph. He appears to be an ordinary guy. "So, what's Mr. Talbot's claim to fame, Mulder? Why is this an X-File?" There is not another question I could possibly ask my partner that would be as well received as "Why is this an X-File?" Okay, maybe "Is that Elvis I see standing over there?" But the X-File query is a definite runner-up. Mulder's smile spreads like a Texas ranch and his pesky hyperactivity once more animates his long limbs. "The story goes that Arthur Talbot is capable of infusing the evil of Satan into his chosen victims merely by breathing on them. Witnesses claim that the man himself is so wicked, he exhales the very air of Hell." "Hmm. Maybe he just needs a pack of breath mints and a new toothbrush," I suggest. "We're not talking halitosis here, Scully. He has affected a string of law-abiding citizens, imparting into them the ability to commit a variety of heinous crimes, from rape to torture to murder." "Another Robert Modell?" "Unh unh. Arthur Talbot doesn't 'push' his victims with his mind, forcing them to kill themselves. He imbues them with absolute evil via simple respiration, causing them to commit atrocities upon others." "Mulder, I don't need to tell you that it's impossible to exhale an overpowering desire to commit criminal activity. There is no model in nature to suggest such likelihood. It's more probable that Mr. Talbot is nothing but a hapless scapegoat for the recent, gory crimes of Blue Hollow." Why I bothered to say any of this, I don't know. It's not like I expected Mulder to suddenly ram the heel of his hand against his brow and admit "Scully, you 're right!" before hurrying to the cockpit to insist the pilot turn the plane back to DC. But, I can never seem to stop myself from arguing against Mulder's farfetched theories. No matter that my efforts are futile -- that Mulder often doesn't even hear my words of disagreeable disagreement. No matter that his outlandish conjectures turn out to be absolutely right with frustrating regularity. Damn it. Why does science leave me stranded so often? My only source of comfort is in knowing that Mulder doesn't gloat. Although he's had ample opportunity, the words "I told you so" have never crossed his luscious lips. Oops. There's that unasked-for, all-too-explicit mental image again. "But, Scully, there are plenty of models in nature that prove behavior can be controlled by the body chemicals of others. And I'm not just talking about pheromones here, although that is an example. Many creatures can emit substances that influence, even modify, the behavior of their 'victims.' The degree of the modification depends on the type and proximity of the external stimulus or the susceptibility of the affected organism. We ran into this ourselves when we investigated the Kindred almost six years ago. I know what I saw, Scully, and I saw you about to do the wild thing with some stranger. Tell me your actions were a result of your own raging hormones and not those of Brother Andrew's electric touch," my clever partner challenges. How did I fall into this trap? Is this airplane coffee decaff or something? I'm about to mention that the Kindred may not have been from this world, but the notion of EBEs brings me up short. Well, the notion that I might actually consider the notion. At what point did I start arguing Mulder's side? So, I think about countering his attack with a pheromones vs. bad -- in the truest sense of the word -- breath argument, but know I don't currently have the fortitude to withstand Mulder's certain barrage of conjectural artillery drawn from his veritable bottomless arsenal of photographically memorized trivia. I decide it is wisest to keep silent at this juncture and save my strength for later. "But you might be right, Scully," he says, amazing me. "It's possible this isn't a natural phenomenon at all. We could be looking at something natural." I can't help it -- I groan. Aloud. "Such as?" "That's what we're going to Maine to find out," Mulder tells me, then yawns a wide yawn, leans his head back and closes his eyes. Immediately, he is asleep. How did he do that? The man can stay awake for days at a time with enough adrenaline pumping through his system to animate an elephant's corpse, yet here we are, in the middle of a stimulating conversation, and he drops off quicker than the blood pressure of a patient in full cardiac arrest. So much for my ego. Obviously, I'm not as scintillating as I'd like to think. I decide to finish browsing the contents of the case file while sleepyhead catches forty winks. The file is rather hefty. Along with the sketchy information about Arthur Talbot, there are five detailed bios of victims-turned-criminals in the folder. The only things these people seem to have in common are the clean records they had before they encountered Mr. Talbot. That and their adamant insistence that Arthur Talbot is the cause of their varied criminal behaviors. All of their crimes were premeditated and markedly horrendous. One victim was actually peeled to death with an apple corer. I guess you don't join the FBI to meet the country's finest citizens, but these people...Jesus. The file also contains descriptions of the victim-turned-criminals' victims. One per, for a grand total of ten histories -- plus Arthur Talbot's slim biography. I wonder why there isn't more in here about our hellfire-breathing perp. It's almost as if he didn't exist before he moved to Blue Hollow just over five weeks ago. I continue to read for an hour or so. Finally needing a break from the case histories, crime scene descriptions and coroner's reports, I swallow the last of my now stone-cold coffee and study Mulder as he snoozes. He must be dreaming. His eyes move beneath his lids and his masseter muscle tightens and relaxes along his jaw as he clenches and unclenches his teeth. I watch his fingers twitch against the dark gray wool of his pants. When he utters a soft, strangled whimper, I lift his jittery fingers from his thigh and squeeze them gently into my palm. I want to take away whatever nightmare has captured him in his vulnerable sleep. He opens his eyes and appears relieved to find himself sitting in an airplane. "Hey," he greets me sleepily and carefully draws his hand back into his lap. He won't let me mother him, as usual, and that's fine with me. "Mother" is not the role I want to play in Mulder's life. "Musta fallen asleep," he states needlessly. "We'll be landing in about fifteen minutes," I tell him and, in silent acknowledgement, he blinks hazily at me. _____________ We land at Bangor International Airport. No need to go to baggage claim; we haven't brought anything more than the carry-on overnight bags we always have packed and ready in the trunks of our cars. Mulder strides to the car rental counter and signs the paperwork for a typical sedan. Bet it's blue. He flirts with the attractive clerk and snags a roadmap, which he naturally passes along to me without taking his eyes off her. Let's face it. After six years together, we know our roles. He drives; I navigate. He flirts with pretty clerks; I flirt with local law enforcement officials. It just doesn't work as well the other way around. He jingles the car keys as we walk to the blue sedan. I swear he's jangling a tinny rendition of Ninety-Nine Bottles. Can't he get that song out of his head? Not to mention mine. He unlocks the trunk of the car and tosses in his duffel before turning for my bag, which he pitches in beside his own. When he unlocks and holds open the passenger door for me, I get in and lean over to unlock the driver's side door for him. All very predictable -- a Paux de Deux we've practiced countless times at countless airports over countless days. The lack of necessary thought is actually a relief, however -- a respite from the extreme circumstances that habitually punctuate our lives. "Which way?" he asks once he's behind the wheel, his green eyes now clear and wide-awake. "Take a right." He drives and I ride for an hour, heading southwest from Bangor along I-95. Our turnoff is in Augusta, the state's capitol -- a wholly unimpressive place. Then we're traveling two-lane roads north for the next three quarters of an hour. We arrive in Blue Hollow at around noon and start scanning the local establishments for someplace to eat. A little caf on the right, overlooking the Androscoggin River, looks promising, so Mulder pulls into a free parking space. Mulder's next flirting opportunity presents itself early when a cheerful, young waitress greets us with a gum-snapping smile and leads us to a booth. Not to worry. We're meeting the local sheriff after lunch and then it'll be my turn to make googoo eyes. I have to hand it to Mulder. Even when he's flirting, he's working on the case. After ordering the Blue Plate Special, he asks Miss Bubble-Gum if she knows Arthur Talbot. "Oh, yeah," she nods and snaps her gum, "Everybody 'round here knows Arthur Talbot. They say he's the devil." She whispers this last part. My eyes roll of their own accord when Mulder gives me his patented "See?" stare. Not exactly an "I told you so." Like I said, he doesn't gloat. "Why is that?" he asks her earnestly. "'Cause 'a the way he makes people do evil things an' stuff." "How does he make people do evil things?" I ask. "I dunno. Puts the whammy on 'em or somethin'" she says and turns on her heel for the kitchen. Mulder is jubilant. Okay, so now he's gloating without actually gloating. I find myself wondering what it might be like to have a job where the words "whammy," "exsanguinate," "mothman," and "alien abductee" never come up. While Mulder fiddles with the catsup bottle, I ask him how he plans to prove Arthur Talbot is the real criminal behind the Blue Hollow crimes. "Remember what happened when we tried to bring Modell to justice," I remind him. "The judge practically laughed you out of court." "I know. I've been thinking about that, Scully. I think the only way we can prove Talbot's culpability is to use ourselves as bait and experience his 'whammy' first hand." Mulder's serious and I'm appalled. "You can't be serious?" I ask despite myself, knowing full well he is. "What are you worried about? I thought you didn't believe in the 'whammy'?" "I don't, but..." But what? What am I going to say? I'm not convinced that Arthur Talbot has anything at all to do with the Blue Hollow atrocities, but something about this oddball situation has me unnerved. Have I mentioned that I hate it when I get a gut feeling -- especially if Mulder is present to notice it? If there's any such thing as Fate, it steps in now because, as luck would have it, our lunch arrives and I don't have to say anything beyond "Pass the catsup, please." _____________ Conveniently, the sheriff's office is located only two doors away from the Riverside Caf. Finished with our lunch, we walk over to the rather run-down building that houses the local law enforcement. Dave Russell, Franklin County Sheriff, greets us with a firm handshake. It's my lucky day. Sheriff Russell is blonde, muscular and, judging from the way he's giving me the once over, obviously interested. No wedding ring either. Eat my dust, Mulder. Dave leads us into his back office and shuts out the ringing phones and general hubbub of the outer room by closing the door behind us. He gestures toward two empty chairs and we sit. "Lissy Pelletier was found dead in her jail cell this morning," the sheriff informs us after he takes his own seat behind his desk. "She apparently hung herself with a bed sheet." He slides a black-and-white photograph of the small dead woman toward us. Mulder picks it up and, almost immediately, passes it to me. "She's the first person to claim Arthur Talbot made her commit a crime," Mulder states. It's not a question -- he has the entire background file memorized, of course. "What was her crime?" I ask, trying to keep up. "She bound and gagged her naked one-hundred-and-eighty-pound boyfriend before carving the word "SATAN" into his skin -- over and over again -- until he bled to death," the sheriff tells us grimly. I nod when I recall the grisly details from the autopsy report on the boyfriend. Dave continues, informing us that "Before the murder, Lissy was a model citizen. No priors. Not even a parking ticket. She was a shy, twenty-one-year-old who worked the counter at the local donut shop. Lived in Blue Hollow all her life." "What about the boyfriend?" "Good kid, too. He and Lissy planned to be married next year." "Did Lissy Pelletier tell you she killed her boyfriend?" "Nope. All she would say was Arthur Talbot 'made' her do it." "Meaning...?" "I dunno. But I've heard the same thing from the other four murderers. It's they'll say about their crimes." "Why do you think Lissy Pelletier hung herself?" "I don't know that either, Agent Scully. She didn't talk to anyone and she didn't leave a note." I look over at Mulder and see his eyes are already locked on mine. His expression tells me he's formulated a plan of action for us. The slightest lift of my eyebrow activates his vocal chords. "I'd like to interview your four remaining prisoners," he tells the sheriff, "Right now -- before any more of them decide to practice tying half-Windsors with the bed linens. Scully..." he turns his irresistible peepers back my way, "you autopsy Lissy Pelletier. I'll catch up with you at the morgue when I'm finished here. Then we'll pay Arthur Talbot a little visit later this afternoon." Mulder doesn't wait for my reply -- or the sheriff's; he's already on his feet, has passed me the car keys and is standing by the door. _____________ The morgue that holds Lissy Pelletier's body is located in the Blue Hollow Memorial Hospital several blocks away from the sheriff's office. While Mulder is busy questioning Arthur Talbot's purported henchmen, I dress in scrubs and pull Ms. Pelletier's corpse from the morgue's cold storage. Lying nude on the stainless steel table, Lissy is a small, young woman with the face of a sleeping child. Her angelic expression belies her murderous capabilities. I'm not sure exactly what I'm supposed to be looking for here. The cause of Lissy's death would seem rather obvious. However, I'm quite certain Mulder would like me to ignore the overwhelming physical evidence -- that Lissy committed suicide by hanging herself -- and search instead for some undetectable yet undeniable proof that Arthur Talbot caused Lissy to murder her boyfriend and then kill herself. Buried somewhere in the depths of Ms. Pelletier's small form, I'm expected to uncover incontrovertible verification of Arthur Talbot's "whammy." Well...be that as it may, I begin where I always begin -- at the beginning. "Melissa 'Lissy' Denise Pelletier. Twenty-one-year-old female Caucasian. Ninety-seven pounds. Five feet, one inch tall." I speak clearly into the recorder's mike. An external inspection of the body shows nothing out of the ordinary -- other than the chafing and edema around the neck. There are no cuts or puncture wounds. Epidermis appears healthy. No outer defects or abnormalities. With nothing more to examine on the outside, I pick up my scalpel and slice a neat Y-incision through the skin of the torso. Three hours pass quickly while I weigh internal organs, pick through stomach contents and explore the varied minutia of human parts and systems, hunting for anything atypical. I collect blood and urine and tissue samples for later lab analyses. I even open the cranium to inspect the brain. Nada, nothing, zip. Sorry, Mulder. If the "whammy" is for real, it doesn't leave detectable clues behind. I feel Mulder, even before I hear him, entering the room behind me. It's no sixth sense or anything. Just a subtle change in air pressure as Mulder pushes his way silently through the morgue's steel doors. He watches me without speaking while I finish wrapping the body. Once I've tied the final knots, he steps closer, his head tipped at a quizzical angle. "Find anything?" he asks. "Such as?" I test him. "Six-six-six branded on the inside of her upper left ventricle?" His face is so absolutely hopeful, I'm unable to hold my reaction in check. A single snort of laughter erupts unflatteringly from my nose. He doesn't seem the least put off by my unfeminine response. To the contrary, he appears quite pleased with himself -- it's a victory that he's managed to make me laugh out loud. He's really quite clueless that his daily salvo of offbeat jokes and innuendoes threaten with frightening regularity to dissolve me into a fit of giggles. I rarely allow my appreciation of his humor to show, however. If I were to encourage his comedy, we'd never accomplish anything. "No. No overt demonic symbols. How about you, Mulder? Did you find anything?" I peel off my bloodied latex gloves and toss them into the receptacle for contaminated waste. Mulder reaches over and carefully removes the facemask that's perched on my forehead, watchful the elastic doesn't snap painfully against my skin. He twirls the masks expertly on the end of his index finger while he speaks. "All four prisoners repeated 'Arthur Talbot made me do it,' ad infinitum. Demographically speaking, they couldn't be more diverse. But all four described an identical, intolerable burning sensation under the skin -- almost from the inside out -- when they tried to circumvent or postpone their crimes. Their pain increased until they felt driven to murder their victims. It was each prisoner's opinion that he or she had to kill in order to end their own torture and save their own life. Did you find evidence of burns on Lissy Pelletier, by any chance?" "No. No burns. External or internal. As far as motive, the assertion of 'kill or be killed' -- even 'kill or be burned' -- doesn't wash. If that were the case, why torture their victims first?" I lean a little away from Mulder as the revolving mask threatens to fly off his finger. "I dunno, Scully. None of them would talk about the specifics of their crimes. Did you notice from the file that each murder occurred on a Sunday?" "Yeah, I did. That's a little too regular to be a coincidence." "Right. Five deaths on five consecutive Sundays." Mulder stops spinning the facemask. "So much for the 'day of rest.'" "'Idle hands...' What about the prisoner's victims? Do they have anything in common?" "Nah. I explored that too, hoping to find something that would connect them to Talbot. I didn't uncover any commonalities. But I am convinced Talbot used the five murderers as intermediaries. Maybe our interview with Talbot this afternoon will show us something. We're meeting him in half an hour." Mulder tosses the paper facemask into the trash bin and stares for a moment at Lissy Pelletier's small, shrouded form. A crease wrinkles his brow. "All the prisoners have another similarity," he finally says. I lift an eyebrow. "They're depressed, Scully. Depressed in the clinical sense. They're overwhelmed by extreme feelings of guilt." "Is that surprising? They all just committed murder." "Premeditated murderers rarely become depressed immediately after they commit their crimes, if ever. Actually, they may feel quite powerful and in control. And people who feel powerful are not depressed." "Obviously, Lissy Pelletier was depressed enough to hang herself." "Mmm. I don't believe Lissy ever wanted to kill her boyfriend. I think she felt forced to do it." "Forced by Talbot?" "Well, four outta five prisoners surveyed said..." the corner of Mulder's mouth lifts. Now it's my turn to study the slender body on the stainless steel table. "She's so small, Mulder. How do you suppose she managed to tie up her one-hundred-and-eighty-pound boyfriend?" "Scully, try coming at me with a smile and a rope and I'll show you one obliging, naked captive." Mulder's eyebrows waggle suggestively and I'm forced to pretend I'm not picturing him completely nude and tied to my bed. Lordy, my job gets tougher every day. _____________ After a quick, cold -- very cold -- shower at the morgue, I'm back in my street clothes, smelling less like death and no longer playing sexual games with Mulder in my head. He is waiting for me in the car, a pile of empty sunflower seeds on the dash. From the size of the pile, I figure Mulder's been busy using his socially acceptable oral-fixation to assuage his socially unacceptable sexual fantasies. Poor guy doesn't have the option of a mid-afternoon cold shower. When I open the passenger door, he nonchalantly brushes the shells onto the floor, disposing of the evidence. "Scully, how come your lips are blue?" I know he knows exactly why I froze myself under a chilling spray. "New lipstick. You like it?" "I do. What's it called? 'Necro-Navy'? 'Corpus-Cobalt'?" He shifts the car into drive. "'Inanimate-Indigo.'" "Oooo. Gotta say, it's a real turn-on, Scully. But you know me -- dress a girl up like a zombie and I'm fallin' all over myself to get her phone number." Our drive to the Blue Hollow Water District is short. The wastewater treatment plant is located on the north bank of the Androscoggin River, only a mile or so from downtown. The wind has picked up and a rush of fallen leaves swirls around the facility's low buildings in funnels of little mini-tornadoes. When Mulder steps from the car, his trenchcoat billows and flaps like a giant bat's wings. I'm wishing I hadn't worn a skirt to work this morning. Maine can be bone chilling in October and my sheer hose is scant protection against the cold. It's actually spitting snow as we cross the parking lot and Mulder takes my elbow so I won't slip and fall on the icy pavement. His hair is wild in the wind, dancing and fluttering across his brow. My hair is a flailing vortex as I face directly into the frigid blast. We hurry to the front door of what appears to be the Water District's main office. The place isn't set up for visitors, so nothing is clearly marked. The quiet and warmth of the small building's interior is a welcome relief after the autumn bluster outside. Once the door is shut firmly behind us, I try shaking my hair into place even as Mulder is pulling a dried leaf from the top of my head. He lets the leaf drift to the carpet while he rakes his fingers through his own hair, searching for more stray vegetation and hoping to achieve minor repairs to his disheveled appearance. He has no idea he looks extraordinarily handsome just as he is, tousled and mussed like he recently rolled out of bed. Damn! What's wrong with me today? Why am I finding it so difficult to stay focused on the case instead of my partner's exceptionally appealing male physiology? A stocky woman with a mottled complexion materializes from a back office. She's wearing a plaid flannel shirt and a pair of eye-jolting pink stretch pants. She's not smiling. "May I help you?" She sounds peeved. "Agents Mulder and Scully from the FBI." Mulder holds out his badge. "We're here to see Arthur Talbot." "Oh." She doesn't move. "Is he here?" Mulder's voice is politely neutral despite his underlying irritation at her torpidity. "Yeah. You want I should get him?" Well. I guess you can't expect the welcome wagon at a wastewater treatment plant is gonna be a Harvard grad. "Please." Mulder remains civil to the end. Even after she exits the room, he doesn't so much as shoot a disbelieving look my way. He deserves to wear my hard-earned crown of restraint. "Ya know, Scully, it's interesting that Arthur Talbot works here," my poker-faced partner observes once we're alone. "Why's that?" "The depictions of Hell in classic literature are actually very close to that of a sewage treatment plant. James Joyce describes Hell as where 'All the filth of the world, all the offal and scum...shall run there as to a vast reeking sewer.' Even the concept that the fire of Hell has heat but no light, burning eternally in darkness, gives the impression of a compost heap." "What's that got to do with Arthur Talbot? You're not seriously saying he's the Devil, are you?" "He might be just an Angel of the Devil, Scully. Not Satan himself." "Mulder..." At my all-too-familiar tenor of disbelief and warning, Mulder lifts his palm to stop my barrage of doubt before I can begin. "Now wait a minute, Scully. I thought you'd be with me on this one. We're not talking about mothmen or a Tibetan tulpa or even Big Blue here. This X-File has Biblical implications. Don't tell me you believe in Heaven and God but you don't believe in Hell and the Devil." He reaches for the tiny cross I wear around my neck and lightly touches it with his index finger to remind me of my faith. "Well..." "Come on, Scully. I'm gonna start thinking you argue with me just to argue with me." He's looking a little hurt. Yikes. I wonder for a moment if what he says is true. Do I argue with him just to argue with him? Was Lyda right that Christmas Eve? Is my only joy in life proving Mulder wrong, so much so that I'm willing to argue anything as long as it's on the opposite side of the fence from him? After all, I believe in God. I'm less convinced about the existence of Hell and the Devil but... I must look worried because I see Mulder begin to smile. Oh. Now I get it. He got me. He got me good. "Scully, did you notice that Talbot's bio said he was originally from Tanas, New Mexico?" "Mmm." I hesitate to say more for fear of sounding argumentative again. "Coincidentally, Tanas is an anagram for Satan." Oh, brother. Just when I think he's going to be serious, he comes up with this immaterial nugget. "Sorry, Mulder. I need verifiable, quantifiable, indisputable, undeniable proof before I'm willing to admit someone is the Devil, or even an Angel of the Devil. A game of Scrabble just isn't enough." "Now the Scully I've grown to love," he teases. Before he can say more, our stocky receptionist has returned and is beckoning us to follow. _____________ Arthur Talbot is waiting for us in a small back office. The room is quite ordinary. It contains a desk, three chairs and a low cabinet with a pretty collection of African violets in bloom across its top. A calendar promoting a local business establishment hangs on the wall. As does an aerial photo of the wastewater plant. Nothing here suggests demonic dealings. Talbot is quite ordinary in appearance, as well. He's a thin man and not very tall. In my heels, I'm able to look him straight in the eye. That's not something I'm used to -- with men or women. His handshake and smile are warm, but the frosty expression in his eyes sends an inexplicable chill down my spine. He scans Mulder and me with gray-blue irises so pale they appear almost colorless. "I'm Arthur Talbot. Miss Rand informs me you're from the FBI." Miss Rand must be the pink-clad receptionist who has vanished from the room now that we've been safely escorted and delivered to her boss. "I'm Special Agent Fox Mulder and this is my partner Special Agent Dana Scully." Whenever Mulder wants to gain an immediate upper hand, he lets our full titles names spill out. It's a sure sign to me that he already considers Talbot guilty. As for Talbot, he's not impressed and reacts to our Bureau appellations with amusement -- a tiny smirk tightens his lips. "How may I help you, Agents Mulder and Scully?" Talbot's small sarcastic smile decreases infinitesimally when he emphasizes the word "special." "We'd like to ask you some questions about your role in the recent local crime spree." Mulder has decided to be immediately blunt. I guess a full afternoon of interrogations has stripped him of any tact and good humor. No beating around the bush now. "I have no role in any crimes and I've already been questioned by Sheriff Russell. Several times. Frankly, I find his prisoners' assertions ridiculous. How on Earth could I have 'made' anyone commit those heinous acts? In what way could I be guilty of those murders?" Despite Talbot's efforts to make his scoffing sound pococurante, his icy eyes glitter with irritation. "Did you know Lissy Pelletier?" Mulder asks, ignoring Talbot's queries. "No." "She claims to have known you, had contact with you." "I can't speak to the claims of a woman I have never met, Agent Mulder." "Are you saying that she lied?" "Agent Mulder, I don't much care for your tone or your questions. I've told you I didn't know Lissy Pelletier. If you don't like my answer, you are welcome to leave my office." I figure now's the time for me to step in, try to smooth Talbot's ruffled feathers. Mulder is expecting me to cut him off and make nice with the suspect. We're about to play Good Cop, Bad Cop -- the oldest trick in the book for extricating answers from reluctant subjects. Since I'm pretty good at lion taming and Mulder excels at irritating others, our roles are obviously predetermined. "Mr. Talbot," I begin, my voice loaded with sympathetic understanding and unassuming supplication, "In Miss Pelletier's statement to the sheriff, she says she remembered serving you a donut and a cup of coffee at the shop where she works on the morning of September 22." "Perhaps she did, but I don't remember her. I may or may not have stopped for a donut on my way to work that day. It would have been such an innocuous event, I doubt I'd remember it at all." "I suppose you don't remember," Mulder begins to bully right on cue, "meeting Jack Thibideau at the Mobil gas station on September 30? Or Janice Nadau at the Shop 'n' Save on October 7? Or Frank Ellis at..." I put my hand on his sleeve in a practiced gesture to stop his bombardment, throwing him a faked disapproving glare in an effort to win Talbot's allegiance and cooperation. "Let's think back to the donut shop, Mr. Talbot," I say as quietly as I can yet still be heard. Mulder has positioned himself well within the borders of Talbot's personal space. He looms over Talbot, using every inch of his six-foot frame to intimidate the physically smaller man. His fists are balled, but held at his sides. His eyes are locked accusingly on Talbot. His demeanor is so completely convincing, even I'm having a hard time remembering it's all an act. Time for Good Cop to intervene. I insert myself between Mulder and Talbot and Mulder releases his aggressive posture, taking a step or two back. I expect Talbot to look relieved -- after all, that's the typical response to our little playacting. But to my surprise, Talbot literally leaps away from me when I brush against him. His recoil is so extreme, he nearly upsets one of the office chairs. I glance at Mulder and see he is finding Talbot's odd behavior especially intriguing. As for Talbot, he's staring at me in horror. The look of revulsion on his face is unmistakable. Frankly, I don't know what to make of it. "Unless you plan to arrest me, this interview is over," Talbot says firmly, bristling with anger. Mulder opens his mouth to object, but the opportunity is snatched from him when an ear-busting alarm blasts a rhythmic warning through the building. Talbot wastes no time. He calmly exits the office with us on his heels. We follow him into the facility's control room where several lights are flashing ominously on the main panel. "Something's stalled the aerators in tank number two," Talbot tells us. All business, he leads us quickly out of the building and into the yard where three huge, circular sewage treatment tanks are enclosed by a tall chain-link fence. Although the tanks are uncovered, there is no smell of human excrement. Something to be thankful for. The fence's gate is open and we hurry through. We can plainly see Miss Rand huddled on the far side of the tanks, her bright pink pants glowing like neon. She has collapsed into a rounded heap and is crying. Her shoulders heave with each uncontrolled sob. Talbot is more concerned with the motionless number two tank than with his emotional basket case of a receptionist. The smooth liquid surface of the middle tank is a striking contrast to the regular undulation of gray liquid in the other two tanks. I'm about to go to Miss Rand when I see it. Him, actually. A man lays face down and apparently unconscious at the outer edge of the quiet pool of sludge. He's wedged between the cement tank and the enormous, unmoving beater-bar that ordinarily churns and aerates the wastewater. Talbot stands perched at the lip of the tank looking not at all worried or surprised. In fact, he looks...what?...pleased? That makes no sense but I don't have time to think about it. If Talbot isn't going to do anything about the emergency at hand, I will. I pull my cell phone from my coat pocket and punch 911. In the meantime, Mulder has circled the tank and is standing above the unconscious man. I walk and talk at the same time, giving directions to the emergency dispatch while joining Mulder on the other side of the tank. Mulder has located a rescue hook -- evidently it's expected that someone will occasionally fall into these vats of human waste -- and he's working to free the unfortunate man from the beater. The man is stuck fast and Mulder isn't able to dislodge him. Mulder gives a frustrated glare at Talbot before wiping sweat from his forehead and turning to me. "He could still be alive, Mulder," I tell him. Realization, followed by resignation, slowly washes over Mulder's face -- he knows only too well what 's coming next. "We can't wait for the rescue team," I tell him. "Even a minute or two might make a difference." "Shit." Yes, Mulder. Can't argue with that. "I hate my job," he mutters and tosses the rescue hook aside. "I'll go in and get him, Scully, but you're doing the mouth-to-mouth." Shit! I suddenly hate my job, too. I'm already anticipating the blood tests Mulder and I will have to endure. The possible ramifications of this rescue effort wiz through my brain. Hepatitis, staph, various parasites, worse. Ugh. Where the hell is that rescue team? Mulder toes off his shoes while yanking off his trenchcoat, suit coat and tie. He throws everything on the ground behind him before unstrapping the gun at his ankle and laying it on the top of the pile. He quickly sets his second gun next to the first. Lowering himself carefully over the side of the tank into the gray liquid, he scrunches his face in disgust. "This is not the highpoint of my career, Scully," he calls to me. I sincerely feel bad for him. Up to his shoulders in sludge, he carefully tugs at the unconscious man, trying to free him without exacerbating any existing injuries. He successfully unhooks the trapped man and pulls him away from the beater. He rolls the man slightly and lifts his face from the sludge. "He's dead, Scully." Yes, he is. The man's nasal bone is broken and pushed deeply into his ethmoid. His face has been literally smashed in. Mulder and I concurrently come to the same conclusion. He's shouting Miss Rand's name even as I'm hurrying to handcuff her. As it turns out, there is no need to rush. She doesn't put up any kind of struggle. As a matter of fact, she doesn't even seem to notice as I lock the cuffs around her wrists. When I haul her to her feet, a bloody tire iron is revealed beneath her. She's blubbering and chanting something over and over. "Basanos. Basanos. Basanos. Basanos." It's a non-stop mantra. And I have no idea what it means. Mulder has climbed out of the tank. Dripping sludge, he hauls the dead man's body onto the concrete rim. Ambulance alarms are getting closer and the sheriff's patrol car has raised a cloud of dust outside the fence. And Talbot...Talbot is watching the proceedings with a satisfied smile splitting his face. "Would you like to share the joke with the rest of the class?" Mulder asks him, irritation edging his voice. Poor Mulder. His once-white shirt is plastered to his skin. His pants are so saturated, the waterlogged fabric threatens to slide from his hips. He must be freezing in this wind. He tries to shake the sludge from his hands, sending a dirty spray from his fingertips. "I can't help but be amused, Agent Mulder. You see, today I have the perfect alibi. You." Sheriff Russell relieves me of Miss Rand, hustling her into his cruiser. Mulder and I will need to answer questions and fill out a report later, after we get Mulder to the hospital for a little decontamination. I retrieve his clothes and guns and join him at the back of the ambulance. "Guess you lucked out on the mouth-to-mouth, huh, Scully?" he asks me as he climbs inside. He's shivering. "Mmhm. Meet you there," I tell him. "I'll bring you something fresh to wear." _____________ The next time I see Mulder, he's been scrubbed clean and is about to be punctured in the upper arm with a hypodermic needle. He's sitting forlornly on the end of an examining table at the Blue Hollow Memorial Hospital, looking more handsome than he has a right to in a hospital gown. "Hey," I greet him and show him I brought his overnight bag. He has time to nod once before wincing from the needle stick. "Thanks." From his unenthusiastic tone, I'm not sure if he's talking to me or his nurse. Either way, his foul mood means nothing personal. Mulder hates hospitals, plain and simple. He's spent far too much of his life in them, either as a patient or as an impatient visitor. Right now, he's itching to get down from the table and bolt for the door. If it weren't for the fact that I hold his clothes, he'd be gone by now. "What did you use to clean with, Mulder? Sandpaper?" His pink skin looks rubbed raw. His wet hair stands all on end in uncombed spikes. "Believe me -- if I had had some, I woulda used it. I don't think I'll ever feel clean again." His boyish pout is adorable. "So tell me, Scully. Just why is it I got to swan dive into the Olympic-sized toilet and not you?" "I didn't pack my bathing suit. Guess you should have given me a little more advance notice of our trip." "Oh, I see. This was revenge, Scully?" He reaches for the overnight bag. "Am I done here?" he testily asks the nurse. "Yes, Agent Mulder." I can almost hear her thinking "Thank goodness." She pulls the privacy curtain while he slides from the table. "Sheriff Russell is expecting us when you're finished here," I tell him through the curtain. He grunts in response. "So what kind of diseases can I catch from my dip in Sewage Lake?" He actually sounds a dite uneasy. "Don't worry, Mulder. Most infections today can be cured by antibiotics." He whips the curtain open. "Thanks for the sympathy." He tucks in his shirt, then realizes his belt is missing -- sacrificed to the gods of human waste. "Damn. I swear I can taste it, Scully. Do I smell bad?" He leans close and I sniff him. He smells...wonderful. A mixture of soap and whatever it is that makes Mulder smell like Mulder. I inhale him again. Deeply. "Well?" he asks, nervous that he might not have expunged every trace of sludge from his body. "Fine. You smell just fine," I manage. Why do my knees suddenly feel kind of...weak? He grunts again and grabs his trenchcoat. "Scully, did you notice the way Talbot reacted when you brushed against him?" he asks as we walk to the car. "He seemed...repelled." "Maybe I'm not his type." I notice Mulder is staring at my neck. Oh, no. He' s looking at the cross hanging from my necklace. "I think it's more than that, Scully." Although I know what's coming, I'm helpless to stop it. Paranormal theories pour out of Mulder like water over Niagara. The best I can hope to do is climb in a barrel and ride it out. "Let's assume for a minute that Talbot is indeed Satan or one of Satan's Angels. Might he not be physically repulsed by an overt representation of Christianity like your cross? Since the cross is the symbol of Jesus, wouldn 't it be viewed and avoided as anathema by the Devil?" "Like wearing garlic keeps vampires at bay?" "Exactly...although I didn't think you believed in vampires, Scully." "I don't." "Anyway, the New Testament says 'The reason the Son of God appeared was to destroy the works of the devil.' I think it's possible that a symbol of the Son of God might be enough to drive back the demons of Hell." "Mulder. Might it not be more likely that real belief and faith in God is the way to deter the Devil? This cross I wear is simply an abstract representation of my faith. It's the faith itself that has power, not the symbol." For whatever reason, Mulder has always had a hard time wrapping his mind around my belief in God. He's more than willing to chase distant lights in the sky, as long as God didn't put them there. The possibility of faith's miracles is unacceptable to Mulder. "I've told you before, Scully, we all have our faiths, and mine is the truth, not God." "Is God's popularity the problem, Mulder? Does the fact that millions of people believe in Him preclude your own ability to have faith? Why is it you can only believe in something when you're out on the limb all by yourself?" "When I sit out on that lonely limb, I get a bird's eye view of all the fanatics behaving fanatically in the name of faith. That faith you're referring to has been used to justify some of the most horrible acts in history." "Well, my faith in God, Mulder." "How far exactly does that faith extend, Scully? To the Kingdom of Heaven? Eternal Life for the righteous?" "Yes." "Well, I guess you'll be living on and on forever without me. I expect I was damned to Hell a long time ago." "Mulder, how is it you're able believe in Hell and the Devil but not in Heaven and God?" I reverse the question he asked me earlier today. "Because I've seen Hell, Scully, and I've met the Devil." He's talking, of course, about CBG and Associates. Maybe he's right. Maybe. "But that's okay, Scully. You know why?" I shake my head. "'Cause today I'm in the company of a bona fide angel." He smiles so sweetly and I'm about to dissolve into him as he slings his arm across my shoulders, when he continues, "Yep, I've got my very own anti-demon device. Helluva lot better than wearing garlic around my neck, dontcha think?" I shrug out of Mulder's embrace. "What does 'basanos' mean?" I ask him, changing the subject. "Basanos? Where'd you hear that?" "Miss Rand was repeating it over and over again when I cuffed her. Do you know what it means?" "Yeah, I do. It's Greek. It means 'torment.'" _____________ "Miss Rand, tell us in your own words exactly what happened to you today." Mulder and I are in a makeshift interrogation room with Sheriff Russell's most recent inmate, Miss Jolene Rand. She no longer wears her signature pink stretch-pants -- but the bright orange prison garb is equally colorful. "'Resist the devil and he will flee from you. Resist the devil and he will flee from you. Resist the devil and he will flee from you,'" Jolene mumbles over and over. Mulder reaches across the table and lightly touches her hand, interrupting her repetitive quotation of the Bible and causing her to jerk away from him. "Miss Rand, what happened today?" Mulder asks again. His voice is soft, gentle an unobtrusive tone he frequently uses with our more fragile suspects. "What did you do after you left Agent Scully and me with Arthur Talbot?" The mention of Talbot's name clearly terrifies Jolene. She fearfully swivels in her chair, checking left and right over her shoulders. "Satan. Satan is here," she whimpers. "Here? In this room?" Mulder asks. "In Blue Hollow." Her voice is no more than a whisper. "Have you seen him?" She nods and her face crumples. "Where?" Mulder asks. "His breath...his breath...I was burning! Oh. After his breath...he...he...he made me...do...something...something...I was burning...burning! Do you understand? I had to..." "Who made you do something, Jolene?" "Him. Satan. Satan. Arthur." "Did Arthur Talbot tell you to kill Harv Johnson?" Harv Johnson, the unfortunate Blue Hollow Water District employee, is currently lying in a refrigeration unit in the hospital morgue, his face crushed by repeated blows from Jolene's tire iron. Jolene Rand nods at Mulder's question, a miserable expression of guilt settles on her features. "Why didn't you refuse?" Jolene looks incredulous. "I...I couldn't. I tried, but the burning started. Under my skin. All over. My skin...it was on fire. It hurt...it hurts." "It hurts right now?" "Yesss! He's here. Heeere." Jolene is panicked. Mulder throws me a questioning look, so I place my hand on Jolene's forehead to check her temperature. She melts into my palm; relief envelops her. "Ohh. 'And when the chief Shepherd is manifested you will obtain the unfading crown of glory,'" she sighs. It's been a long time since Sunday school lessons, but I know the passage is from the New Testament. Is she quoting Peter? In any case, her panic has lifted, her anxiety has vanished and has been replaced by what I can only describe as bliss. Mulder looks as startled as I feel. A tilt of his head tells me he wants to talk -- outside. I follow Mulder into the corridor where he leans over me in a conspiratorial huddle. "What do you make of that?" he asks in a mere whisper, his breath blowing hotly across my ear. "I don't know, Mulder. I can't accept that Arthur Talbot is the Devil. He may not be a very nice man. He may even be demonic or have demon-like attributes, but...well...personally, I don't think he's involved in these murders. We have nothing -- Mulder -- to actually connect him to the crimes." I whisper, too; Mulder's ear is no more than an inch from my mouth. "We've seen demons before, Scully. Actual Angels of Satan. Remember Wayne Weinsider?" Vividly. The Roanoke County baby killer. Mulder was convinced the man was in fact a devil who was capable of sucking the souls out of the innocent. It goes without saying that I disagreed. As far as I was concerned, Wayne Weinsider was the father of several unfortunate babies -- babies he murdered because of their slight physical abnormalities before he buried them in his backyard. I'm afraid our all-too-familiar God vs. Devil debate is threatening once more to open an impassible chasm between Mulder and me. Again, we have reached an uncompromising stalemate. He believes in underworld demons and I don't. I believe God exists and he doesn't. Normally, a difference of opinion wouldn't imperil our relationship, but this disparity reaches to our very cores, defines the people we are. To say that we cannot accept each other's precepts concurrently intimates we cannot accept each other, do not believe in each other. And nothing is more intolerable to Mulder, nothing can hurt him more, than my absence of belief in him. At the same time, his denial of my faith borders on derision and, to be honest, it wounds me. I don't insist he believe in God, but I do insist he respect my point of view. How the hell did I ever fall in love with a man so different from myself? "Mulder, the murderer -- whoever he is -- has changed his MO. The latest murder occurred today, not on a Sunday. And the murder victim wasn't tortured before he was killed. This is a distinct departure from the previous crimes." "I noticed that. Maybe Talbot is trying to throw us off, deflect suspicion from himself." I can't help but laugh. "Mulder, if Talbot is really Satan -- as you claim -- why would he be afraid of ?" "He's not, Scully. He's afraid of you. And from what I just saw in there," he nods at the interrogation room door, "I think I'm beginning to understand why." _____________ I decide it's time to call in the big guns -- I'm phoning Father McCue while Mulder finishes our official report for Sheriff Russell. "Father McCue, this is Dana Scully," I say into the receiver. "Dana! How nice to hear from you. Is there something I can do for you?" "I need some information, Father. I'm hoping you can help me." "What kind of information?" His voice is so calm, his desire to be of service so strong. I feel secure when he speaks. "I'm working on a case. I need...I'd like you to tell me what you know about the Devil." "The Devil? Dana, I'm not sure exactly what to tell you. Despite the enormous amount of secular writings about Satan, the Bible actually tells us very little. Did you know there are fewer than a dozen passages in the Old and New Testaments combined that refer to the Devil by name? The word 'hell' is mentioned only twice." He chuckles. "Really?" I am surprised. "We can infer a lot from the Bible's words about evil in general, of course, but if you're looking for a specific description of the Devil, there's not much to go on." "Father, tell me what there is. Please." "Well, in John we read 'He who commits sin is of the devil; for the devil has sinned from the beginning. The reason the Son of God appeared was to destroy the works of the devil.' In Matthew 25, Jesus answers 'Depart from me, you cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels...go away into eternal punishment, but the righteous into eternal life.' Although not very descriptive, this particular passage does tell us a lot about life after death." "Do you think the Devil is real?" "Yes, I do. The threat of temptation and sin and evil is very real." "I agree, Father, but what I want to know...need to know...is if we can recognize the Devil's corporeal presence? What does he look like?" "He may take many forms." "But if we can't recognize...if we can't know who the Devil is, how can we defeat him, Father?" "By our faith in God, Dana. Peter writes 'Be sober, be watchful. Your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour. Resist him, firm in your faith.'" "'Resist the devil and he will flee from you.'" "Yes. The First Letter of John. I'm glad to hear you remember your Bible, Dana." "Actually, someone mentioned that passage earlier today. Father, do you believe that encountering and confronting the Devil may be...part of God's Plan for us?" My question elicits another chuckle from Father McCue. "First you ask me for a physical description the Devil and now you want to know the meaning of life! You're certainly searching for big answers today! Dana, we have no way to know God's Plan or the part we will play in it. We can't anticipate or even appreciate whether our actions comprise a small or large part of that Plan. The most ordinary act can be the impetus for a momentous event. The fact that you leave your house two minutes later than usual one morning might set into motion a chain of events that will change the world. If we are fortunate, God's Plan may be revealed to us as we go. Often, we never know what effect the actions in our lives have on the world around us. As for encountering the Devil, I couldn't say if God plans such meetings or if the Devil works outside of God's Plan." "I...I was just wondering if I was...meant to meet the Devil." "Dana, are you in danger? Do you need help?" "No...thank you, Father. I'm fine. I'm in no danger." "The Devil is powerful, but God is more powerful. You must have faith in His power to protect you." "I know, Father." "If you need help, look to God." "I will. And thank you." I disconnect my call and feel strangely dissatisfied. I don't know what I was expecting to learn from Father McCue. I was pretty sure when I placed the call, he wasn't going to tell me the Devil has horns on his head and carries a pitchfork. But "prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour" isn't much to go on. Hell, that could be Skinner on one of his better days. My recent and inscrutable prescience of an encounter with the Devil has me worried. A predestined meeting seems inevitable -- and completely out of my control. I'm feeling propelled toward an unstoppable confrontation. Call it God's Plan or Fate or mere coincidence, I'm certain the rendezvous will happen...whether I want it to or not. Mulder is coming down the hall, walking slow and slouchy, chewing thoughtfully on the inside of his cheek. "You finished here?" I ask him. "Mmhm." "What's next then?" He doesn't answer but grasps my elbow and steers me along the corridor to the now empty interrogation room. He doesn't let go of my arm until I'm seated at the small table. He straddles the opposing chair and stares across the small distance at me. His eyes search my face. What are you looking for, Mulder? "What happened in here earlier today?" he asks. I suddenly feel like Jolene Rand. Is that overhead light actually shining in my eyes? I begin to sweat. "When?" I'm stalling. I know exactly what he's talking about. "When you touched Jolene Rand." He places his palm lightly against my forehead to remind me. I shake my head as I flounder for an answer. His hand drops back to the table. "She said she was burning. I...I checked to see if she had a fever. That's all. I just touched her." "I touched her, too, Scully, but she pulled away from me." "Maybe you're not the ladies' man you'd like to think." I'm teasing, but he' s not in a playful mood. A seriously serious Mulder. "What happened, Scully?" he asks again. "What do you think?" Oh, I don't want to have this conversation. How can I tell Mulder about my gut feeling, my hunch, my premonition? He knows as well as I do that I don't believe in such things. I don't want to talk to him about fate, destiny or providence either. Lord knows I can't use the words "God's Plan" with this man. Any mention of God or divine intervention will send him scurrying for the nearest anti-organized religion argument. Yet I can't lie to Mulder either. Where God is my truth, truth is his god. Truth with a capital "T." His trust is anchored in my honesty. Besides, I'm a lousy liar. "I don't know what to tell you, Mulder," I say softly, gently, unwilling to resurrect our impenetrable wall of atheist bricks and Christian mortar. "I think you may be right -- this case is about the supernatural. But not in the way you're accustomed to thinking." He nods and reaches for my hands. I let him trace silky circles across the backs of my fingers. "Mulder, I think something very important is going to happen to us." His eyebrows lift in question. "I need you to keep an open mind." Now a tiny smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. Which makes me smile, too. "I know, I know. You've been telling me that for years." "What's going to happen, Scully?" "I can't say exactly. But I...feel it coming." Oh, this is embarrassing. "There's something...there's something I'm meant to do. I feel it as real as I can feel your hands touching me now." I give his fingers a squeeze. "I have no scientific explanation, Mulder. Actually, I'm at a total loss to describe my perception. It's not a sixth sense or a mere intuition -- it' s...it's knowledge." This is frustrating, but bless him, Mulder is trying to understand. I can see him mentally setting aside his prejudice against the Church, Catholicism, God. He's doing it out of respect for me. "Okay, Scully. I believe you. I trust what you say is real." I love this man so much. "We need to see Arthur Talbot, don't we? It's time for us to prove Talbot's culpability. We're going to use ourselves as bait and experience his 'whammy' first hand after all, aren't we?" "Yes, Mulder. We are." _____________ It's well after dark when Mulder and I arrive at the Blue Hollow Water District; the high beams of our rental car illuminate the otherwise dark building. "He's not here," Mulder offers. "Yes he is." I don't know how I know this. I just do. I've stopped trying to figure everything out or explain it rationally. I've come to the uncomfortable realization that no reasonable explanation exists for what we are about to do. I have accepted that we are here to bear witness, even as we participate in an event that defies science. Science. My constant shield. A suit of armor I wear to fortify myself against the onslaught of unsolvable mysteries Mulder and I face with terrifying constancy. Tonight, science is no more protection than The Emperor's New Clothes. So I wear my faith instead. I open my car door and an icy blast of wind inserts itself into Mulder's and my small world. "Come on," I encourage my uncharacteristically reluctant partner. He must sense there is danger here, too -- danger of a proportion we have not encountered before, danger for which we are bleakly unprepared. I hear his door open and close, then I feel him standing beside me in the disserted parking lot. For the first time, his physical presence does not reassure me. I am afraid. For him. Oddly, I think I'd be more secure without him. I want to shout at him to get back in the car, drive away, leave me. But as soon as his fingers press into the small of my back, I know he will not abandon me here. He thinks he is my protector...my knight. But Mulder has no sword to fight tonight's enemy. He is the one who will need my protection. "Think it's locked?" he asks hopefully as we approach the front door. "No." He turns the knob and the door swings easily open. We automatically reach for our flashlights and weapons. We align ourselves like practiced dancers; he takes the lead and I follow his deliberate steps, watching his back. We head for Talbot's office -- not because we have any cause, but because we are drawn there. Carefully, carefully, Mulder opens the office door. He patiently waits a few seconds before he aims his beam into the room. When he 's sure no one is there, he crosses the threshold. His fingers flutter along the wall in search of the light switch. When he finds it, the room fills with bright light and we blink in astonished surprise. There in the center of the room, a wide puncture opens the tiled floor and in it, a staircase leads downward. "I suddenly feel like Alice in Wonderland," he says. "Do you suppose the White Rabbit went this way?" He gestures down the hole. "Coming, Dinah?" he asks, referring to Alice's cat, and he starts down the stairs. We are down no more than a dozen or so steps when the stairs' treads wobble without warning and rotate into an almost vertical position, upsetting our balance and pitching us down what is now a steep slide. A heavy metallic thump warns me that Mulder has dropped his gun even before he yells, "Shit!" Well, it's comforting to know that some things are still predictable. Our fall is a short one. We land in a heap in the dark. Extricating ourselves from one another, Mulder absently hums the theme song to the Wild, Wild West while he pivots, piercing the room with his flashlight in search of his lost weapon. Okay, so I am glad he's with me. "Can you find it?" I ask him. "No." He shines his light up the stairs-turned-slide and squints. Obviously, we won't be leaving the same way we came in. I pan the room with my flashlight, trying to determine the size and shape of the space we're in. Although I take several steps away from Mulder, my beam has yet to reflect off any surface but the floor. And just what is the material of this floor? I kneel to touch it. On closer inspection, the oddly shaped, light-colored terrazzo looks familiar. Jesus! I jump back when I recognize the floor is made from polished human bones. "Mulder...look at this." He joins me, squatting to place his palm on the floor. "Bones?" "Mmhm." "Human?" "Mmhm." "And just why are you letting me touch them?" He pulls his hand away and rubs his palm roughly against his pants' leg. When he stands, we have no choice but to explore our puzzling whereabouts. "Did you see the sign outside?" he asks me. "What sign?" "The one that said 'I'd turn back if I were you.'" We walk for a while, finding nothing but blackness. Our footsteps create no echoes; the sound of our heels is absorbed into the void. "We could be walking in circles, Mulder." "Hold on." He stops me with his arm, then tugs his watch from his wrist. "Let's see if we're havin' fun, Scully." He winds up like he's about to toss a fastball and pitches his watch far into the dark. Well, time flies and we wait for it to land on the floor somewhere ahead or hit an unseen wall. We wait. We wait. "Hmm," Mulder says. "What the hell..." Evidently, that is the magic word. The room lights up and, although we still see no walls, Arthur Talbot stands about fifty feet away. He looks very pleased with himself. "Welcome to my humble home," he literally purrs. I think we've found the Cheshire Cat in Alice's Wonderland. "Let's retire to the den, shall we?" He spins and walks away from us. I give Mulder a little shrug and we follow. Talbot pauses outside a closed door that stands impossibly independent of any wall. "Agent Mulder, would you care for a smoke?" he asks, his hand poised on the doorknob. The stench of sulfur floods the air and I twist to look at Mulder, fearful that Talbot has lit him on fire for nothing more than a joke. But Mulder is fine. "No?" Talbot asks. "Well, let's go find a seat then." He swings open the door. Oh my God. I can't believe...oh my God. God, this must be...has to be an appalling nightmare...a horrible, horrible dream. This can't possibly...be...real. Please, God, please. On the other side of the door...oh, God...uncountable prisoners are heaped together, bound and helpless, one on top of the other, stacked and crammed so tightly...they can't move. They're trapped...in complete darkness. Thousands of them. Hundreds of thousands. And the stench...the stench is intolerable. Unbreathable. The numberless, crushed bodies are massed together in a reeking human heap. Oh, God. They're alive. They can feel. Please, God, no. They're burning. Burning without being consumed and the smell is unbearable. I can taste it. I start to gag. I hear Mulder gasp behind me. I watch these poor souls and know the blood in their veins and the brains in their skulls are boiling. Their hearts, their bowels are about to burst from the heat. Their eyes are molten balls. They scream and howl and cry. Their shrieks of suffering fill the remotest corners of this vast abyss. This lake of human fire is boundless, bottomless. We are staring into Hell and the Devil stands smiling by our side. A frightful ripple of tears suddenly blurs my vision. I force myself to move away, coercing each cumbersome step with enormous effort. All the air empties from my lungs. I feel dizzy; a sickening, wobbly feeling invades my knees and numbs my arms and legs. I'm not able to control the vibrating tremors that shake me. If it weren't for Mulder fingers digging painfully into the flesh of my upper arm, I would collapse to the floor. I hear Mulder nervously clear his throat. If he's like me, his heart is lodged there. "I expected to see more familiar faces. They must be in the back," he jokes, but his voice quavers on the verge of breakdown. "Yes. Looks a bit crowded in there," Talbot says, grinning. "Perhaps we should try the kitchen instead." Although Mulder and I stand perfectly still, locked together in our startled fright, we abruptly find ourselves in another room. I turn to Mulder and see the blood is drained from his face. He's as white as the burning corpses in the prison we just left behind. His shivering hand vibrates my arm where he grips me. His Adam's apple bobs convulsively in his throat. He looks like he might vomit. But he's glaring at Talbot, meeting the smaller man's evil stare. Although he's afraid, Mulder faces our adversary head-on. "You'll join me for dinner, won't you?" Talbot asks. "Shall we see what's cooking in the oven?" He laughs, enjoying our appalled expressions. "No? Maybe you're not hungry just yet. Maybe we should play a little game before we eat. What do you think? Get our appetites worked up, hmmm?" "Who are you?" I manage at last to find my voice. "Oh, I think you already know the answer to that question, Agent Scully. And before you ask, it's your souls I want -- to round out my little collection." He beckons us forward with a waggle of his fingers. When we don't move, he is immediately next to us. "Who would like to go first?" he hisses. "Me," Mulder volunteers before I can speak. "Mulder, no," I beg. "Ooops. You're too late, Agent Scully. What's that expression..." Talbot pauses to think. "'You snooze, you lose?'" He laughs again, delighted with his power to shock us. "Don't worry, Agent Scully. You'll have a very important role to play in our little game. After all, every competition needs an audience, a bastion of avid fans to cheer on the home team. Hmm? Rah, rah, rah?" "Mulder, don't give him what he wants. You don't have to do what he says." "Oh, no?" Talbot asks. He takes a few small steps around us. "She has pretty legs, don't you think, Agent Mulder?" Mulder turns to look at my stockinged legs. When he does, a sharp tear of fire explodes up my calf, bursting the skin. I scream at the violence of the lesion and the smell of my burning flesh. Blood oozes from the six-inch wound, immediately matting in my nylons and spilling across my high-heeled shoes. "Stop...it!" Mulder insists. "I said I'd play." "Good. Let's begin then, shall we? I will ask you three questions. Your answers will determine if you win or lose the game. Do you understand?" "If that's one of the questions, my answer is yes." "Aren't you clever, Agent Mulder. Next question: do you love Agent Scully?" "Mulder, don't. Don't play his game. You can't win." "She's a smart lady. Well? What's your answer? Do you love Agent Scully?" "Yes." "This is fun, isn't it? Last question: Would you give your soul for her?" "Mulder, don't answer him!" "Yes." "Damn it, Mulder!" Talbot is gleeful. "I win, Agent Mulder," he announces and I watch, helpless, as Mulder and Talbot vanish from my view. As quick as that, I'm left alone. _____________ It's been six hours since Talbot and Mulder disappeared. My leg stopped bleeding soon after I wrapped it with the belt of my trenchcoat. Not very sanitary, but it's better than bleeding to death. The pain in my calf has kept me from going very far. Besides, there's nowhere to go. This wall-less room is necessarily without doors or windows. So, I've been sitting on the floor, singing Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer and trying not to fall asleep while I wait for something to happen. "God, please help Mulder," I pray in a whisper, dropping my head onto my knees. Talbot's evil laugh howls beside my ear -- he's suddenly next to me. "Are you ready to play now, Agent Scully?" he asks, eager at the prospect. "I'm not playing anything with you." "Not even for the return of your partner?" "Where is he?" "I left him relaxing in the den." Oh, Mulder. He's in that horrible prison. "Let him go, Talbot." "I don't think so. How about we play a game of 'Hide and Seek' instead, Agent Scully. Did you play it as a child? The rules are really quite simple. I hide Agent Mulder and you look for him. If you find him, you both go free. If you don't find him, you both stay here as my guests -- forever. Do you want to play?" "No. Why should I believe you'd release us? Why should I believe you'd keep your word about anything? You're a liar." "Sticks and stones...blah, blah, blah. I think it should be obvious to you -- it's not your partner I'm interested in keeping here. It's you. It's you I've wanted all along. But I had to get you to come to me of your own free will. So I planned and plotted and set up housekeeping in Blue Hollow. I made all those poor, weak souls commit atrocities on their fellow men. Oh, Agent Scully, it was beautiful to see their torment even as they tormented their victims!" Talbot glows with pride. "I knew your partner would come to investigate my fun and I knew you would follow him here. And I wanted... to bring you here, Agent Scully." "But why?" Talbot's expression of feigned good humor transforms instantly at my question. Hatred pours across his features. "Because, you're in my way!" he roars angrily. "You...you and God's other angels...you spoil my work. You rescue what is meant to be . I want you stopped!" He is furious. His face expands with hot anger. His breath bawls over me, carrying with it the smell of eternal torment. Yet he doesn't touch me. He is afraid of me. Mulder was right. My finger lifts automatically to the cross I wear. "I'm going to find my partner and I'm going to take him back," I tell Talbot. "No!" he shakes his head. His face has turned ugly from his anger -- a hideous deformed mask of rage. His hair and teeth grow long as he bellows. His mouth opens so wide with each tremendous howl, his upper lip splits vertically up to his nose. He is frightful. Father McCue's words come back to me: I stand, ignoring Talbot's shouts of outrage. The wall-less door appears before me once more. I walk to it. "Noooooo!" Talbot orders. I open the door. Although I'm faced with the same horror as before, I'm no longer afraid. This is the moment. This is the moment I've been anticipating all day. This ordinary day has turned extraordinary. And I'm walking as if in a dream, directed by a power not my own. I am an instrument. I am here for God's purposes. I remove my blood-splattered shoes and set them carefully on the threshold. Stepping through the door, I begin a preordained climb up the promontory of tortured souls. I ascend the mountain of unfortunate humanity -- a congregation of sinners and lost spirits -- and walk with guided accountability over this floor of human bodies. These haunted individuals are packed with such excruciating tightness, they are as one -- a single solid mass of afflicted wretchedness. I feel their torment under my stockinged feet. They burn me as they themselves burn, but I am mysteriously allowed to transcend their fire. I am here to look for Mulder. Only Mulder. The knowledge that he is here -- suffering with these disconsolate multitudes -- is unbearable to me. Yet I know he is in this place -- I can feel him. I am being led to him. He's in this Hell somewhere, invisible among these tens of thousands of faces and bodies and souls stretching without end in all directions around me. But I will find him...I will find him even if I have to walk this limitless conflagration forever. Mulder was taken from me six hours ago and I fear those few hours have been an eternity for him. He has most certainly endured inestimable torture in those hours. He has experienced no respite from his agony. He has been without hope. In my urgency to get to Mulder -- to end the unbearable pain he suffers -- I don't at first notice the effect my passing has on the path of bodies I trample. But a hushed whisper becomes a chorus as I continue further and further along my journey. <'And when the chief Shepherd is manifested you will obtain the unfading crown of glory.'> <'And when the chief Shepherd is manifested you will obtain the unfading crown of glory.'> <'AND WHEN THE CHIEF SHEPHERD IS MANIFESTED YOU WILL OBTAIN THE UNFADING CROWN OF GLORY.'> I can no longer hear Talbot's angry shouts from beyond the door. His dreadful, terrifying roar is obscured by a joyous incantation of thousands. Their relief soaks downward and outward like water is soaked into a sponge. Torment is transmuted to rapture. The souls below my feet drown out the Devil's cries of protest with their own song of blissful redemption. Then I see Mulder at last, up ahead, wedged among the damned. Oh, God. He is moaning from what is surely an unrelenting pain. His face is a torment. He appears lost to me -- lost in an unending agony of which I can only imagine. My heart cracks at the sight of him -- split by grief at his misery. The hurt and fear and hopelessness that he is feeling pierces my breast. I cannot take a breath without suffering as he suffers. I hurry to him as best as I'm able, trying not to stumble over the uneven hills of human bodies. When I reach him at last, I take his face in my hands and watch with unspeakable relief as his pain slides away. His eyes open and he sees me. There is wonder in those eyes of his. And I'm so grateful to have found him. I love him. I love him. Oh God, I love him. I hold him against my body and he wraps his arms around me. He buries his face into my shoulder and I weep into his hair. Thank God. When we finally release our desperate embrace, we are sitting alone on the floor of Talbot's office. The stairway leading to Hell has disappeared. _____________ Mulder is reluctant to leave my motel room, even though his own room is only one door away from mine. He's been lying on my bed for the last hour and a half, his legs and arms splayed like he's staking a claim while he flicks through a repeated rotation of television channels. I sit across the room at the table, trying to type up case notes on my laptop, but find I'm at a loss for words to explain the events of the last twenty-four hours. I know Mulder is watching me, despite the fact that he's using his best covert operation techniques. His surreptitious stares are making me feel a little freakish. Hell, this entire day has me feeling freakish. So I guess I'm a little over-sensitive. I finally remove my glasses and stare back at him. "What?" I ask. "What what?" Oh, brother. We've just been to Hell and back -- literally -- and we still can't express our feelings in an intelligent manner. We're pathetic. "What are you staring at?" "I'm not staring. Why would I stare?" "I don't know, Mulder. Why would you stare?" Mulder shrugs and goes back to watching TV. I stretch my neck, tilting my head from side to side and cracking the bones in my spine. I'm tired. I wish Mulder would go to his own room so I could go to bed and get some sleep. But for whatever reason, I'm reluctant to ask him to leave. "I get it now, Scully," he finally says, speaking very softly. "You get what, Mulder?" "I get why you believe in divine miracles even when science can't explain them." Well. Well. This is a little miracle in and of itself. "Scully, I'm sorry I gave you a hard time about the God thing." Lordy, the miracles just keep on coming! Crossing the room, I sit on the bed next to him. I reach out to touch the bristly surface of his cheek and he turns his head to lightly kiss my fingertips. He pats the mattress beside him, inviting me to lie down. He's obviously a little disappointed when I take a moment to think about it. What the hell -- I stretch out beside him. He draws me to him and I settle comfortably with my head on his shoulder and my hand on his chest. I feel his chest rise and fall with each breath he draws. I feel his heart beat beneath my palm. I marvel at its strong, unwavering rhythm thudding steadily beneath his ribs. I love this man. I love this man very much. THE END "Devil's Roar" is my 7th X-File Fan Fiction. Other stories (listed below) are posted on Gossamer. My husband has challenged me to now write a story from Mulder's POV. What do you think? Should I try it? Feedback, good or bad, is welcome on this or any of my stories. Send comments to nejake@tds.net. I'm obviously not a professional writer so any pearls of wisdom you could pass my way would be most helpful and appreciated. Thanks! --Cin "The Boogeyman" "Majahando" "Deep Freeze" "Split Second" "Greetings from Maine" "The Coiled Serpent" "Devil's Roar"