From: mamakash@bellatlantic.net
Date: Mon, 22 Nov 1999 18:21:12 +0000
Subject: Femme fatal - Chapers one through eight (duplicate)
Source: direct

Femme Fatal: Chapters one through eight

Title -" Femme Fatal"
Author - Brenna Ferry
E-Mail address - mamakash@Bellatlantic.net 
Subject - Indiscretions(1/8)
Rating - R( sexual references, language)
Category - XA
Spoilers - Beginning of the sixth season
Keywords - Mulder/Other
Summary - Mulder is sent to debunk rumors of a monster in New Jersey.  In his absence, Scully aids an investigator in the unexplained deaths of several public officials.
FEEDBACK:   Love it!  Just wing it through to the E-mail address above.
DISCLAIMER: The X-Files and the characters of Mulder and Scully belong to Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions and Fox Broadcasting, and are used without permission.  No infringement is intended.
ANY LAST WORDS: I simply had to put my hometown on the map.  Everyone asks me where Flagtown is . . . and while many of the land marks are based on fact, any resemblance to people living or deceased is purely coincidental.


"And the lady's feeling like the moon that she loved . . ."  Stevie Nicks




       Richard Chadham knew where to disappear.  The flashbulbs of
photographers, the microphones of journalists never had found their way
here.  They pushed into his trendy political lunches, his powerwalks
around the city parks.  They would have broken through the men's room door
if they could, snapping pictures as he urinated, asking the same questions
over and over.  Did you know she was underage?  How many times did you
engage in sexual intercourse?  Did your wife know of your affair?  And
howlong d id you think you could hide this?
       Senators did not want these kinds of questions asked.  Not in an
election year.  Not when the answers would end his career. 
       His marriage of twenty years had been struck by the winds of his
indiscretion.  Mrs. Chadham quickly and neatly packed two bags and left
among the fireworks of exploding flashes.  *That* had ended his career, he
thought as he rattled the ice cubes in his double scotch.  He had lost the
perfect story and photo op.  The first line would have read, "repentant,
humbled man forgiven by his loving wife."  But the good old days were a
thing of the past.  Where was Tammy Wynette when you needed her, reminding
women everywhere to stand by your man, no matter how much of a jerk he'd
been? 
       The bar could not have been darker, which he was especially
thankful for.  Bars were normally dim, most likely to mute the cock eyed,
drunken expressions of its patrons.  It was always easier to pick up a
woman, her appearance muted by dimness and alcohol, then slipping out in
the morning light.  He wasn't the first man to get drunk and take to bed
whatever was available, and he wouldn't be the last.
       It might happen tonight.  Across the parking lot was a motel and he
had purposely booked a room.  If anything, he knew he wouldn't be
staggering back home tonight.  Senator Chadham wouldn't give the media
another photo op.
       He craned his head from behind the back of the booth.  Three men
and two women sat at the ample bar, scattered among the stools.  A few
couples had chosen the open tables, their conversations low and serious,
nothing flirtatious.  They might be married, they might be friends.  Mr. 
Chadham found it unsettling when he spotted people engaged in the habit of
listening in on other's conversation, but tonight he finally understood
why they did it.  When a person has no life(and he realized his life as a
public official was ending) there was nothing left to do but listen to
other people living theirs. 
       He caught the eye of the bartender, the drink she had just poured
in her hand.  She quickly swung from behind the bar and walked over to
where he sat.  She chinked the glass down on the table, a double scotch on
the rocks.
       She was pretty, he quickly assessed, but not alluring, her hair too
short and her face plainly made up.  He pointed to the drink.  "I didn't
order this."
       She nodded back to the bar.  "She did." 
       "Why?" he asked, almost stunned. 
       She reached over to relieve him of the empty glass.  "I don't ask
why.  I just pour them." 
       He turned himself around so the bar was fully in his sight.  Which
woman?  This was the nineties and women probably did buy drinks for men,
but this was the first time it happened to him.
       When the woman to the far left of the bar turned and stared at him,
he knew.  He looked at the drink in his hand, then back to her, nodding a
thank you.  She smiled in return, her dark cropped hair teasingly dangled
in front of her eyes.  The light from the bar illuminated her enough to
catch a glimpse of her figure. She was slim, her jeans snug enough to
reveal a small waist and slender legs. 
       He swallowed hard, nodded again, then left the safety of the dark
booth.  The stool to her left was vacant and he uneasily sat down.  *Fine
time to get cold feet*, he thought.  *You should have gotten cold feet
before you ruined your career.* He placed down the drink on the bar, his
closer proximity allowing him to get a better look at her.
       Muscular.  He could clearly see the light definition of her arms
and the tightness of her waist under the tank top.  Her lips were full,
finished in a dark lipstick.  Her eyes seemed dark and enveloping even in
his clear view.  He swallowed again.  "Thank you for the drink."
       The smile left her face, but not the corner of her mouth, which
turned up slightly even in her somberness.  Richard Chadham wasn't really
fooled.  She wasn't looking at a man in his late twenties or early
thirties.  He was pushing fifty, accustomed to new wrinkles and grey
hairs, never feeling rested when he woke up, ready for a nap at three in
the afternoon.  He could try to pretend to be a young, virile man, but the
reflection didn't lie.
       Time was catching up to Richard Chadham.  And he didn't like it. 
       "You looked like you needed it," she replied, and when he blankly
stared at her, she added,"The drink."
       He had been memoried by her eyes, the shape of her lips as she
talked.  The curve of her left breast beneath the strain of her cotton
top, the left leg that dangled off the bar stool.  "It helps.  It helps
the pain."  And realizing he had been leering at her, he added, "The
drink."
       She leaned in towards him, stared into his blue grey eyes(with
those trace lines he had become aware of), and placed a hand on his thigh,
slipping it around the curve.  Instinctively he clamped his hand around
her wrist.  But he knew it wasn't what he wanted to do.  He knew he didn't
want to stop her.
       Nonplussed, she took the back of his neck in her hand and leaned to
his ear.  "I can stop the pain," she whispered into his ear.  "I can make
it all go away." 
       He turned his face to her and before he could ask her what she
wanted from him, she pulled him to her, the kiss answering the unasked
question.  Full, probing, forceful.  He pulled away, suddenly dizzy.  His
hand went up to his head and he rubbed his eyes.
       "Maybe you didn't need that drink after all," she placed a hand
over his and rubbed it gently.  As he tried to reply, she stopped him with
another forceful kiss, playing her tongue against his lips.
       Another wave of dizziness caught him but he rode it, concentrating
only on her warm saliva.  His hands fell to her waist in an attempt to
steady himself.
       She was warm and inviting.  There was nothing in this world but her
and nothing else that he wanted.
       He reached into his pocket and pulled out the hotel key, dropping
it into her lap.  He had lost his career and he had lost his wife.  There
was nothing else for him to lose and he would not lose the night with this
woman.
       "Please," he whispered to her, the vertigo still reeling in his
mind. "Please."

       Night classes at the community college was not only the motivation
for working at the motel, it was quickly becoming the only reason.  She
had pushed the cart of cleaning supplies up and down the halls for what
seemed like an eternity but it would all be worth it when she finally
graduated.  No more ammonia, no more scrubbing toilets, no more changing
sheets.  Instead, she would sit in the office and laugh at her day jobs, a
thing of the past. 
       She shut the door of 211 and unlocked the door of 212.  She pushed
the cart past the bathroom door and headed into the bathroom. 
       But it looked untouched, the paper strip still across the opening
of the toilet, soap wrapped and sitting on the sink, not even dotted with
a splash or two of water.
       She rubbed her head.  Maybe the room was rented but not slept in
last night.  Maybe they had a change of plans. 
       She headed out and walked into the room.  She sighed in
exasperation and pulled off the cleaning gloves.  "I've had it up to
here," she placed her hands on her hips.  "We have a 'Do Not Disturb' sign
for a reason."
       The sight of a nude man did not embarrass her or make her shy her
eyes away.  He laid on his stomach, half of his buttocks exposed, the
other half loosely covered by a sheet.  He did not respond to her loud
accusation.
       "Drunk", she snorted.  She pulled at the sheet and covered him. 
"Pathetic", she grabbed the bedspread, "I'm sure the hangover you wake up
with will be punishment enough."
       He did not stir. 
       She craned her head, kneeling down on the floor to look at his
face.  Something was not right.  It wasn't her business, she shouldn't
even be in here.  She reached out to his forehead, then dropped to his
neck.
       She recognized him. 
       She fingered for a pulse, then drew back. 
       His picture was stamped across the morning papers, his name on the
headline of the one she was reading as she road the bus to work.  She had
admired him, believed in his ethics, and even with the scandal did not
condemn him. 
       Senator Chadham. 
       Stone cold. 
       She grabbed the phone and dialed the front desk.  "Greg, this is
Lisa, I'm in room 212," she blurted out in a shaky voice.  "Call an
ambulance . . . Oh God . . . call the police."  She stared in horror at
the senator.  "The man who stayed here last night . . . he's dead."

(2/8) 

"And the lady's feeling like the moon that she loved . . ."  Stevie Nicks


       "You no longer investigate X-Files.  You are done." 

       Agent Mulder found himself repeating the line each time he was
faced with Assistant Direct Kersh.  The words was said to both agents but
Mulder took it personally.  The smug, the dislike that Kersh held for him
was evident in each assignment he handed out.  Each one was more
humiliating than the last.  Even the smallest whimper of protest from
Mulder brought the whip down harder. 
       Mulder learned fast.  He knew he was trapped. 
       "Hey." 
       "Hey you," he replied to his partner.  He watched her with a
curious expression as she placed two beverages on his desk, adding a paper
bag that she had been balancing under her elbow.  "I don't remember any
mention of a coffee run this morning."
       "My treat," she brushed his arm and grabbed her coffee.  The lid
quickly slid off as she took a hasty sip.
       He peered in the wax paper bag.  "Coffee *and* sweets?" 
       She pulled the bag out from under his nose.  "The muffin is mine. 
I got you a bavarian cream."  Her grin was mischievous.  "I thought it
would perk you up."  The expression turned serious.  "How are you
feeling?"
       He nodded dubiously, taking a cautious sip from his coffee.  "I'm
better.  I think." 
       Scully sat down in her chair.  "I forgo the morning jog." 
       "Sorry I kept you up." 
       She shook her head.  "No, it wasn't a problem.  I'm glad we
talked," she said as she watched him take an enthusiastic bite from his
pastry.
       "Not like it helps," he abruptly interjected, then regretted his
sharpness.  It *did* help to have her voice on the other end of the phone
last night, talking until the glow of the LED display blurred from
fatigue.  He brushed the powered sugar from his lips.  "That's not what I
meant."
       "I know what you mean, Mulder."  She was a doctor, she knew the
signs and a donut would not cure the illness.  The conversation would
provide a temporary bandage but that was all.  "Have you given any thought
to what I said?"
       "No," he flatly refused, pushed away from his desk. 
       "I didn't say leave.  I didn't say give up."  She grabbed hold of
his chair to keep him from leaving.  "I said put a little distance.  Get
your objective back." 
       "Scully, I want the X-files back." 
       She sighed.  The more he fought, the deeper he sank into
depression, unable to see past the reach of his arm, losing sight of the
bigger picture.  The X-files weren't coming back, at least not in the
direct route.  Scully saw the whole picture.  And yes, she didn't like it
but at least she could live with it.  For now. 

       Kersh held his stare long on the agent.  Mulder tried to avoid the
glare, fidgeting with his tie, tapping on the arm rest of the office
chair.  He must have done *something* to irritate the Assistant Director
but he couldn't image what.  Yes, the background checks were driving
Mulder insane but he wasn't letting that show.  Not to Kersh. 
       Kersh slid a folder in front of himself from the right of the desk. 
He opened it, flipped through its contents, and slowly pushed it in
Mulder's direction.  "This is against my better judgement, Agent Mulder. 
But you have been specifically asked for, and I have no legitimate reason
for refusing it." 
       Mulder pulled the folder closer to him and gingerly flipped its
pages.  He skimmed their contents, growing more confused with each word
that stood out.  "I don't understand," he scanned with his index finger,
flipped the thin paper, and was greeted by a black and white photograph. 
Multiple wounds covered the body of a male, one lacerated arm dangling in
the river that it lay next to.
       Scully could not feign indifference any longer and craned her
vision at the picture Mulder stared at, then turned her focus to him.  She
recognized that look, the spark building in his eyes, the involuntary
anticipation building in his face.  He was on the verge of salivation. 
       Unexplained deaths had a way of causing such a reaction in him. 
       Scully took in what she could from the side.  She turned back to
the stern face of her superior.  "What is this, sir?  Why does this
concern us?"
       He shook his head.  "This doesn't concern you, Agent Scully.  Only
Agent Mulder."
       Mulder broke from pouring over the report.  "Explain." 
       Kersh gestured to the dossier.  "Your help was requested in finding
the explanations to these recent deaths.  But there was no mention to
include Agent Scully.  She will continue in the work I've assigned you and
when you return, you'll again join her."  He neatly folded his hands on
the desk and smugly fixed his glare on Mulder.  "You'll fax daily reports
to my office and I'll review how you are handling the case."
       Mulder's glance fell again to the photo.  *This is not an X-file.*
       Kersh caught Mulder's bewildered expression.  "Stories and rumors
are circulating around the apparent attacks.  Since you worked in violent
crimes before your involvement in the X-files, I am assured you will give
a logical explanation and squelch any local legends that develop."
       *Thank you.* Mulder closed the folder and pushed it back to Kersh. 
He knew what was happening.  Kersh was placing a biscuit on Mulder's nose
and commanding him to stay.  A neat trick for a dog.  Humiliating for him. 
And he wasn't about to sit and beg for a scrap of the job he used to have. 
"I don't want this case, sir." 
       "You don't have a choice in this, Agent Mulder."  He slid the
folder back in front of Mulder.  "Agent Scully, would you please step out
of the room for a minute?"
       She flashed a quick look at Mulder but quickly stood up and walked
out, shutting the door behind her. 
       Mulder swallowed hard.  It was all he could do to hold his temper. 
"Whatever you need to say to me, you can say in front of Agent Scully."
       "I have nothing to say.  You have your orders." 
       "Then why break us up?"  Mulder shot up and leaned forward on his
desk.  "Why have me go to New Jersey on my own?" 
       "It is because, Agent Mulder," Kersh stood up to meet Mulder's eye
level, "you partner seems to apologize and take responsibilities for your
actions.  If you mess up this one, there will be no one to blame but
yourself."
       *And what do you consider messing up?* Mulder didn't bother to
shoot that one out to the AD.  Kersh knew exactly how Mulder felt.  And
Mulder knew what was implied by "messing up."  Making it into an X-File. 

       *Flagtown, New Jersey*.  Scully pushed her back into the couch and
sat with the crime folder balanced on her knees.  She casually tucked a
loose strand of hair behind her ear, watching Mulder as he packed a large
suitcase with a commitment she hadn't seen in a long time. 
       She didn't think it was excitement. 
       "I'm glad to see your taking my advice, Mulder.  But wouldn't you
rather take a vacation when you're not working?"
       "It's not a vacation, Scully," he disappeared into the bathroom. 
"I've got to get out of my head," he called out from behind the medicine
cabinet.  "I've got to get away from the bureau, if only for a week or
two."
       She turned back to the report, balanced on her bent knees.  What
the photos failed to reveal, the autopsy report exposed.  But even that
was unclear to provide motive.  She held the photo up to her face and
squinted.  "It's clearly an animal attack.  Looks like dog." 
       Mulder reappeared with a ziplock bag holding his toothbrush, tooth
paste, and razor.  "They're calling it a monster." 
       "I hope you're not saying it's the Jersey Devil." 
       "No, no," Mulder dropped the bag into the suitcase and looked over
her shoulder.  "This is taking place in *Central* New Jersey.  I can't
even start to guess what's going on.  And I won't."  He shut the filled
suitcase.  "Scully, come on," he genty pushed her feet out of the way and
sat down.  "It's suburbia.  Nothing mythical happens in suburbia.  People
don't see Elvis, they don't spot UFOs.  They commute to work, pick up
their "two point five" kids in their minivans and grab vanilla lattes on
the way home.  They mow the lawn on the weekend and maybe use the grill
for saturday night burgers."
       She managed a faint smile as she tried to envision him smack dab in
the middle of normalcy.  Normalcy didn't suit Mulder.  Her smile faded. 
If doing background checks didn't drive him nuts, having to deny and
rationalize the unexplained would.  "You will call?"  She tried to hide
the concern in her voice but failed. "To let me know how you're doing . . 
. or if you need my opinion." 
       "Thanks," he flashed her a reassuring smile.  "I'll call to say
Hello, but I don't think I'll need the moral support.  I think it's going
to be OK."  He nodded to convince her, he nodded to convince himself. 
"I'm going to do what they want me to do.  I'm going to do my job." 

(3/8)
     
  The day was grey and cool and autumn foliage played against the sky.  He
pulled off his sunglasses, squinting at the glare.  But not as bad as when
he left Virginia, he thought.  It was cooler and cloudy, threatening rain. 
He didn't think so.  The air that came through the driver side window
didn't hold the feeling of rain.
       The light turned green. 
       * No one knows where Flagtown is.  We used to have a T-shirt that
read, 'Where the Hell is Hillsborough?' I'd joke and say 'Where the Fuck
is Flagtown?'* Officer Ralph Phillips had laughed heartily into the phone
when Mulder called him.  *Don't bother taking 206 through Somerville and
Hillsborough.  Make a right onto Duke's Parkway and'll pretty much take
you into town.*
       Mulder spotted the stone wall to the right of the road.  Soon he
was met by a second light, and this time the road to the right was flanked
by two large stone turrets, just as Phillips had said.
       Mulder's mind had been on the case the whole way down.  The details
were shuffling through his head . . . three deaths by animal attack,
breeding fantastic stories in the tiny town of Flagtown, New Jersey.
Suburbia.
       He made a quick right, existing the long chain of traffic. 
       The fallen leaves swirled as he drove the car through and spiraled
behind him.  The road curved and dipped up and down slightly, he slowed
the car down as a deer ran across the road.  She sprinted into the
thinning woods, leaping past a large decorative stone well.  He watched
her as she went deeper and deeper.
       He kept the car at a slow pace.  The fall wind stirred up the
leaves and beat them against the car, blowing a few gold ones through the
open window.
       The road led through woods to fields on his left and right, large
rolls of hay standing far off in the stubble brown field.  He took the
curve to the left, then right, then down the straight road.
       He took the curve off to the right.  The flat grey sky spread over
the land, now developed with homes, but some remaining farms could still
be seen.  It was hard to imagine they could stand against the threat of
developers.
       When Mulder spotted the gas station at the end of the road, he gave
a sigh of relief.  The police car was parked in front of the post office,
where Phillips said it would be.  He pulled in between an excessively
large minivan and a delivery truck.
       He swung the car door open, spotting a man walking toward him from
out of the deli.
       "Agent Mulder."  The man enthusiastically held out his hand and
gave Mulder's three strong pumps.  He was tall, probably in his early
forties with grey starting to show in his temples and mostash. "Directions
good?"  He grinned as Mulder nodded an affirmative.  "You get to see the
back of the township, the road through Duke's is pretty." 
       "That's part of Flagtown?" Mulder asked. 
       "Huh?  The Duke estate?  That's all Hillsborough Township.  Of
course, this is Hillsborough Township, too . . ." he drawled off here,
then shook his head.  "But that's not a part of Flagtown.  You know who
Doris Duke is?"
       Mulder shook his head, wondering where all this going. 
       Phillips waved a hand toward the road Mulder had taken.  "Doris
Duke, she inherited all that from her father.  He made his money in
tobacco.  Bought up the land years ago.  She died a couple years ago and
now the land is in trust, so I can't imagine it will ever be sold and
developed.  That's the key, Agent Mulder.  It seems like the last place of
open land and I hope to God it stays that way."  He opened the door to the
deli and pushed through.  Mulder followed.  "Sandwich sound good?  You
haven't eaten, right?"
       "Nothing since this morning."  And that had only been mildly good
coffee and a donut eaten on the way up.  Hunger hadn't figured into the
equation, he wanted to get to work in what was familiar.
       Phillips grabbed two cokes from the cooler, waving Mulder to a
table with one.  Mulder pulled his coat off, watching as Phillips waited
for the sandwiches.
       "We don't have much in Flagtown," Phillips joked as he placed both
sandwiches on that table.  "Five spaces in front of the post office for
five hundred people.  Still," he chuckled as he sat down.  "It's the
ambiance, I guess."
       Mulder smirked back.  He liked what he saw so far, which wasn't
much.  He liked small towns and the odd quirks that often surfaced in
them, places that always remained home even after people left for new
ground.  New Jersey was oddly enough one of those places.  Native born
people had an unusually fierce attachment to the state.
       "So, you've looked at the reports?" 
       Mulder nodded as he bit into his sandwich.  Phillips had yet to
size him up.  He didn't just glance at the reports, he poured over them,
analyzing each detail, every nuance, fact, tiny detail.
       With every turn of the page, Kersh's voice echoed, "This is not an
X-file."
       Mulder had drawn his own conclusion even before he headed out on
the road this morning.  But they weren't what Kersh wanted to hear, and he
knew that.  So he threw them out the driver's side window. 
       Mulder grabbed his Coke, chasing down the turkey club before
answering.  "Nothing like this has happened before?" 
       Phillips arched his eyebrow.  "If this was a common occurrence, we
wouldn't need the help of the FBI, would we?" 
       Mulder caught his annoyance.  "I need to separate fact from
fiction.  We don't want panic spreading if there is no real threat." 
       "Three people are dead.  The animal and it's appearance may be
sketchy.  Those victims aren't." 
       Mulder took a quick look around the deli.  Throw discretion out the
window as well, he muttered to himself.  The four other people eating
lunch heard Phillips.  They turned their heads, glanced momentarily, then
went back to eating.
       "Everyone in town knows.  And most have formed opinions."  Phillips
casually pointed to those seated.  "It's not a secret." 
       Mulder picked the folder off the empty chair and laid it open on
the table.  "'A large dog like creature, hairless, white.  According to
these eye witnesses, they watched as it paralyzed its victims through it
'hypnotic stare'. Death through multiple bites.'"  Mulder looked up at the
officer.  "Have you seen this animal for yourself?" 
       "I've taken the reports of those who have," Phillips turned the
folder toward him and flipped through it.  "It comes out at night and
hides from people most of the time.  It's a night creature, I think,
probably can see in the dark.  At first it ripped apart people's flower
beds.  Then people's pets started disappearing.  Then . . ." he trailed
off and pulled out one of the photos.  "I think we can all live with a
little local legend.  I can deal with a made up story.  What I can't abide
by is the deaths of three people."
       Phillips picked through the pictures, pulling out one particularly
graphic photo.  He stared at it for half a minute, then laid it down on
the table.  "I've never seen anything like this and I want it to stop. 
They all do," he circled his finger, gesturing to the room of customers.
       Mulder leaned in and brought his voice down to a harsh whisper. 
"Someone asked spefically for me to investigate this.  Why?" 
       "I did," Phillips replied, mildly surprised at the agent's
suspicion.  "I didn't think you'd mind, I heard that you specialize in
these things." 
       "*Specizied.* Past tense." 
       Phillips shrugged, taking a bite from his sandwich.  He had
followed protocol in contacting the FBI, insisting on the maverick agent
in the bearu, knowing that Special Agent Fox Mulder no longer worked on
the X-files.  Bullshit, he muttered back when the AD informed him that
Agent Mulder was not capable of handling the case.  Things were too
serious to rely on some rookie brown noser.  Fox Mulder was the man to
have, and if the FBI didn't send him down, he'd find some other way of
procuring him.
       "There are some eyewitnesses you should speak to," he told Mulder,
wiping mustard off his chin with a napkin, "but it's hard to tell how much
of their stories are real and how much is fabrication.  The myth is
starting, Agent Mulder.  I can't predict what lengths people will go to
perpetuate it." 
       Silence passed between the two of them.  There was something more
here.  Mulder waiting for the officer to say what was on his mind. 
       "First things first," Phillips cleared his throat.  "There is
someone I want you to meet." 

       She stood outside the front of her house, rubbing her lower back. 
It must be the weather, the old familiar ache tugged at her as she
dutifully worked in her greenhouse.  In the summer, the weather, warmth,
and rain took care of her plants.  In the winter, it was up to her to be
mother nature.
       She dodged a strand of red, shoulder length hair out of her face as
the car came pulling up the drive. 
       Phillips drove the car.  Her brow crinkled in irritation.  She
didn't want to explain the shattered pane of her greenhouse again to a man
who refused to see the obvious explanation.  They refused with their lips,
and yet readied their guns to destroy what they couldn't understand. 
       She took a step forward and cupped her hand at the side of her
mouth.  "I thought you came down here this morning!" she called out to
him.  "Change your mind?" 
       "Change yours, Lewis?" he catcalled back to her as he opened the
car door.
       Mulder caught a glimpse of her as he swung out of the car.  She
placed her hands on her hips, standing as tall as she could, scowling at
Officer Phillips, her expression darker than the slate gray sky that hung
overhead.  "I have not.  It broke a pane in the greenhouse." 
       "Kids," he called back. 
       Mulder headed up the driveway.  He extended a hand out to the
woman.  "Officer Phillips said you were the best person to talk to
concerning the animal that's been scaring everyone in town."
       The expression did not leave her face, it turned darker.  "And you
are?" she asked haltingly.
       "Oh, sorry."  He reached inside his jacket and pulled out his ID. 
He flipped it open.  "Special Agent Fox Mulder." 
       "FBI," she flashed a quick look of surprise at Phillips.  "Am I
being investigated?"
       "Penny, I told you," Phillips walked past her and towards the large
greenhouse.  "I was oing to call out a specialist.  Agent Mulder has dealt
with these kinds of cases.
       "Specialist indeed."  She pulled the ID from Mulder's hand.  "All
your trying to do is find a neat explanation for three dead people and . .
." 
       "A broken window," Mulder finished the sentence for her.  He held
his hand out to her, hoping to retrieve the ID.  "When was your greenhouse
broken into?"
       "Last night," she raised an eyebrow at the tall FBI agent.  "I
heard it happen in the middle of the night, awful crashing glass sound.  I
threw on my coat and went out.  That's when I saw . . ." 
       "The dog." 
       Her eyes widened in surprise.  She slowly handed the ID back to
Mulder.  "I haven't touched the greenhouse, except to put plastic over the
hole."
       Mulder wordlessly swept his arm towards the greenhouse. 
       She strode ahead, heading to the large greenhouse.  Impressive
indeed, thought Mulder.  Not quite as impressive as the woman who stood
yelling at the top of the drive, convinced of her nocturnal visit.  Her
hair was short, but not too short.  And he found himself fancying the
shade of red recently.  Sure, he had always preferred brunettes, but
hadn't had a lot of luck with them.  On first glance she was slim . . .
and fiery . . . and determined.  Just how he liked them. 
       He rolled his eyes as he walked.  Oh, great, he thought, fine time
to get turned on.
       She had taped plastic over the hole, but left the edges untouched. 
Mulder walked up to it and sat on his haunches.  "This is how you found
it?"
       "Well, I cleaned up the glass after the police came out.  But I
didn't touch the broken edges."
       He reached into his pocket and pulled out a spare latex glove. 
"Look at this, Phillips," he gently brushed the edges with the gloved
hand.  "Looks like we got some blood."  He paused and squinted.  "And one
hair." 
       Phillips bent down.  Damn it if Mulder wasn't right.  When Penny
had called them up at four in the morning, the house call had been brief,
simply not enough light to see these fine details.  Phillips could have
sworn someone must have chucked a brick through, and then removed it.  He
thought Penny was crazy enough to do it herself, simply to convince the
town of her mystery animal.
       Mulder stood up.  "I thought the reports said that this animal was
hairless."
       She knelt down beside Mulder, staring at the one hair sticking
straight out.  "It is," she replied, turning her head to him.  "Except for
the neck.  Pure white, long hair." 
       "I know, Lewis, white hair and white eyes.  Low growl."  Phillips
shook his head. 
       Mulder tuned the two out.  He immediately hated their squabbling,
they had probably been doing this ever since the first scattered sighting
had been reported.  Arguments were useless to him.  "Officer Phillips, do
you have an evidence bag?"
       "Should have in the car." 
       "I want to take that hair and get a sample of this blood.  See
exactly what we're dealing with."
       Penny stared at him, her right eyebrow quirked high in annoyance. 
*I know what we're dealing with and no one as listened so far.* She knew
the truth of the wild creature that had on more than one occasion revenged
her herb beds, destroying belladonna and aconite and black hellebore.  And
now Philip's called down the FBI to make her look foolish. 
       More people would be in harm's way.  Discrediting the sightings
would not stop it. 
       She scowled at Phillips as he headed back to the car.  "I really
can't stand that man."
       Mulder managed a weak smile.  "I wouldn't worry, Ms. Lewis.  It may
take some time#, but I don't plan on leaving until we have the answer."
       Her brow furrowed deeper, her stare bore down on him harder.  "You
don't believe." 
       "I am an investigator, Miss Lewis.  I need time to collect and
analyze." 
       She stood up and turned her face to the sky.  There was nothing
there, no birds flying, no clouds skimming across a mottled surface, just
the flat grey autumn sky he had drove in under.  She smiled and stretched
her arms behind her, as if a wind blew through her and lifted her body. 
"They say witches come out when it's like this."
       "Really," he replied flatly.  Damn, she *was* beautiful. 
       The expression of bliss slowly drained from her face.  She brought
her gaze back down on him.  "Why did Phillips want me to meet you?" 
       "He thinks you know about this creature more than anyone else
does." 
       She snorted through her nose.  "As if I was some canine expert." 
She pulled his arm, leading him to the greenhouse. She opened the door,
waved him in, and shut it behind her.
       Mulder felt the contrast immediately between autumn and tropical
summer.  Damp peaty earth mingled with sage and mint.  English ivy crept
up the north side of its interior but invaded no farther.  Bay and
bergomot trees neatly lined the sides in their pots, lining the pathway to
an intricate know garden, laid out directly into the ground.
       "Raised beds, Agent Mulder," she walked over to the neatly trimmed
herbs and plucked a spring from a side plant.  "The roots won't freeze and
the warmth keeps them growing all winter.  Here," she handed him the
plant.  "I *must* have fresh herbs all year long." 
       He rubbed the leaf and sniffed.  "Beats the winters blahs, huh?" 
Peppermint.  He tore a leaf in half and deeply inhaled.  "Phillips didn't
tell me much about you, Ms. Lewis, except to say that you had seen the
animal more than anyone."
       "He didn't mention my over active imagination?"  Her laugh rang
through the greenhouse like church bells.
       "Would have spoiled the surprise."  Phillips called out to them
from outside.  He neatly plucked the hair from the glass and sealed it
inside the bag.  "And just because *I* think you're nuts doesn't mean the
FBI would as well.  So, Agent Mulder,"  he quickly walked around to the
door, "any thoughts on what you've seen so far?"
       Mulder swung his head back to Penny.  "The dog or Ms. Lewis?"  He
had definite opinions about her.
       "The animal, of course.  I figured you thought Ms. Lewis was nuts,
too." 
       "Well, *something* made that hole.  And something killed those
people.  I just don't know what yet."  He smiled at Penny, a reassuring
smile.  She wasn't crazy, he knew that immediately.  And she had seen
something, although that thing must be nothing but a plain, ordinary dog. 
Sure, a dog with a nasty temper and a strange appetite for flower beds but
a dog . . . nonetheless. 

       "I think I first saw it this summer."  She wrapped her hands around
a clear glass mug, loose tea leaves drowned at the bottom.  She sipped on
her strange yellow brew while engaged in her conversation with the two
men.
       They drank coffee.  Penny had pulled a half empty container of
instant from the back of her pantry.  And while it wasn't horrible, it was
flat tasting.  Mulder figured she only kept it around for entertaining,
which she obviously didn't do much of. 
  
       The instant coffee had apparently been in that cupboard for a
while. 
       She had lit three candles that sat on the counter before sitting
down in the chair nearest the window, the blue northern light setting her
face in hollows.  She turned momentarily to the smells of bayberry and
pine that diffused from the candles.  "Strange things have been
happening."
       Mulder craned his head and looked around the kitchen.  She had hung
small bunches of dried plants on the wall.  He didn't recognize them.  Not
millet or poppie or yarrow, some of which he had seen hanging in people's
houses.  "Clippings from your gardens, I see." 
       She nodded.  "Betony." She stood up and pointed it out to him.  "A
nice tea herb."
       "And the other?" 
       "This?  It's hellebore." 
       Silence. 
       "I teach two classes at Rutgers," she quickly added, noticing the
clouded expression that darkened Mulder's face.  "One's in botany, the
other in mythology."
       Mulder only mumbled his reply. 
       "Lewis was the first person to point out the correlation between
the plants and the animal," Phillips interjected, "but I just don't
understand why an animal would go after one plant over another.  Never
touched a zuccinni in the summer, never nibbled a rose bush, just the
poisonous plants.  I told you, Lewis, I never thought it could be a wild
animal."
       "But I read in the report," Mulder shifted in his chair, "that it
was ruining gardens." 
       She nodded.  "My aconite, belladonna, hellebore . . . they've all
been eaten down to the ground.  I moved them into the greenhouse, but you
saw what happened this morning."
       "Animals aren't likely to deavor poisonous plants," Mulder pointed
out. 
       "Probably the work of some person." 
       "Maybe.  But I saw those plants.  I can tell.  They were eaten, not
just torn away."  He turned back to her.  "Have you heard of anything like
this?"
       "Sir, this is the first time I have ever seen this happen. 
Whatever is going on, we have no place to start."

       Phillips pushed open the front door and headed down the walk. 
"We'll keep you up to date on the search, Lewis," he called back to her as
she stepped out the door.  Mulder followed behind.  "Maybe you should get
a dog to watch over the place, something to scare that thing away?"
       She threw him a look of disgust and crinkled up her nose.  Mulder
put a hand up to his mouth to hide a laugh.  "It's something to think
about, Miss Lewis," he gently suggested.
       "As if that would make the whole problem go away." 
       It wouldn't. If this animal was a big of a threat as she claimed,
it would be hard to track and hard to kill.  Considering what it consumed
back in that greenhouse, it should be dead ten times over.  It wasn't. 
Which made Mulder worry. 
       He offered his hand to her.  "We thank you for your time.  Please
let us know if anything else happens."
       She grabbed his wrist as he turned his head to Officer Phillips,
who was now fully down the drive.  The force of her grip startled him, he
turned back to her in surprise.
       She tilted her head, like a dog picking up on a sound, then rolled
her eyes up to him.  He towered over her, but now she could have stood a
full six feet with her presence.  "I know how to find him," she whispered. 
       He flashed a quick glance down to the car, where Phillips looked
impatient to leave.  "I think we'll have no problem tracking it down, Ms. 
Lewis."
       She did not let go of her grip.  "My name is Penny.  Ms. Lewis was
my mother . . . and she's deceased."
       Mulder couldn't read her expression.  It was something between
anger and glee . . . and just plain coy.
       She let go of his wrist.  "Are you interested?  Will I see you
tonight?"
       He looked down at her, not knowing how to reply. 
       Phillips hit the car horn in annoyance. 
       He thumbed towards the direction of the car.  "I'll keep in touch
while I'm with the investigation.  If you hear or see anything else," he
scribbled down his cell phone number on a scrap piece of paper from his
pocket, "this is how I can be reached." 
       He turned and started down the walk, his face flushed.  Maybe he
had been embarrassed by his own sexual flashes for her, but he could
dismiss that.  Most men could.  The one thing he couldn't dismiss was
Penny's comments.
       He could swear she was coming on to him. 

(4/8)

       She half expected a phone call from him.  The absence felt strange,
stranger than any other time they had been apart.  There were times she
didn't see her partner; holidays, vacation, the odd jobs that sometimes
separated them for short periods. 
       Oh yes, she smirked to herself as she sat in front of her computer
in the FBI building.  "Trying to separate" was more like it.  The
beautiful trip to Maine was interrupted by the constant chirping of her
cell phone.  It would have been spoiled anyway, running smack dab into an
X-file.  She knew he envied her . . . why couldn't that happen when he
took a vacation?  It* would* be Mulder's idea of a vacation . . . people
wildly scratching at their faces, ending up dead, and a girl and her demon
doll.
       Relax, Dana.  He's probably busy immersed in misery.  And loving
it. 
       Of course he wouldn't call.  Hadn't she always put the damper on
his enthusiasm, spoiled his explanations, dispensed reason when he didn't
want to hear it?
       He *may* miss it.  He may miss *her*. 
       And yet as she past his empty parking space, his empty chair, she
knew the space between them was widening.  Had been widening for weeks. 
It was simply a matter of time until the tether broke and sent them
hurling away from each other.  Nothing happened easily or painlessly when
it came to this job.
       Their relationship was purely professional and yet the connection
had forged itself deeper than friendship, deeper than love.  It was hard
to imagine anything ever separating them with brute force.  The slow,
lingering malaise was now doing what death threats, kidnappings and
unemployment could not do.
       Scully shook her head, focusing herself back at the computer
screen.  She knew Mulder.  Mulder would not give up so easily.  And he
could not be forced into apathy.
       She glanced around the room, agents in front of computers, talking
on their phones, never moving, never flinching, rolling through the lists
of calls to make.  She sighed, her eyes clouding over.  She couldn't blame
Mulder if he never came back to this.  Scully saw apathy waiting at her
back door for a long time, wanting to let it in and be done with it, to
turn off the porch light and go to sleep. 
       Thank God for coffee.  She reached over and slipped her right hand
around the warm cylinder of the mug. 
       The woman at the far end of the room caught her eye.  Scully
cradled the cup between both hands, never taking her eye off her.  She was
apparently a visitor with special clearance(Scully could see her pass
tacked to her uniform black suit), neatly dressed in a blazer and knee
length skirt, her mustard blouse peeking through the top buttons.  Her
dark blond hair was pulled back with a large leather clip.  Scully
couldn't hear her words as she spoke to an agent, but she could read her
lips, just enough to make out ". . .looking for Dana Scully."
       She casually tucked a stray hair behind her ear, watching as the
agent pointed her out.  The woman nodded a thank you, then briskly walked
over.  "Dana Scully," she read off her badge, extending her hand in
greeting.  "Lieutenant Diane Witt.  I'm glad to finally meet you." 
       Scully looked up in mild surprise, but swiveled away from her desk
and stood up.  She returned the gesture and firmly shook the woman hand. 
"Kersh didn't inform me that my twelve o'clock was coming here to meet
me."
       "I'm not your twelve o'clock.  Didn't Assistant Director Kersh tell
you that I would be coming into town today?" 
       "No," Scully replied slowly.  She could predict a confrontation
with the AD on the horizon.  She didn't like getting jerked around.  Or
being left in the dark.
       "That's strange," the woman said while shaking her head, apparently
annoyed at her obviously unexpected arrival.  "I was scheduled to meet
with both Agent Mulder and Scully today at twelve."
       "Agent Mulder left for New Jersey a week ago." 
       "What?" 
       "Assistant Director Kersh sent Agent Mulder to work on a case.  But
I'm available for the moment.  That is," she lifted one eyebrow, "if I
don't get sent off, too."
       "I talked to Director Kersh yesterday and he told *me*," she
thumped on her breastbone with her index finger, "that Agent Mulder could
be at my disposal."
       "Perhaps Kersh meant when Agent Mulder returns," Scully replied,
apologetically.  "But I don't know when that will be and Kersh doesn't
have any way of knowing, either.  Unless he calls Agent Mulder back," she
added doubtfully.  It was unlikely. 
       Lieutenant Witt did not hide her disgust.  "I'm not happy at all
with this.  I came all the way from Washington State." 
       Scully returned the look.  "I think Assistant Director Kersh is
very happy with Mulder being on assignment.  That's really all that
matters, isn't it?"
       "Not when your partner's dead." 
       Scully opened her mouth, then closed it, at a loss for words. 
       "I apologize, Agent Scully," Scully's startled look told Witt she
spoke too harshly.  "You're not responsible for your superior's actions. 
If the Assistant Director had told me Agent Mulder was not available, I
would have saved the trip.  I was eager to work with the both of you, but
Agent Mulder's unusual approach was what I was hoping to utilize in these
deaths."
       "We don't work on the X-files anymore." 
       "I'm aware of that, Agent Scully," she circled the desk in slow,
precise steps.  "But I'm also aware that Agent Mulder used to work in the
violent crimes section, and you are a doctor.  It's such a good paring,
what a shame to break you up."  She stopped her prowling, opened up the
briefcase she had brought with her.  "But at least they didn't kill him. 
Or you."
       "Well, not yet," she quipped, managing a weak smile.  And probably
not now, considering the job.  You couldn't get more benign than this, you
certainly couldn't step on anyone's toes. 
       Witt eyed her suspiciously.  She didn't come out to Washington for
sarcasm.  She pulled a folder out, the expression on her face steadily
growing more serious.  "Things can change, Agent Scully.  And if you
choose to help me, they will.  Three public officials dead, and my partner
makes four."  She waved the folder in her hand.  "I see that the Assistant
Director has not briefed you on the investigation.  If you decline, I'll
understand." 
       "May I?" she opened her hands to Witt. 
       She handed the folder over, the anger breaking, gratitude filling
in the space.  "Certainly.  But not here.  Is there a room where we can
speak in confidence?"

       Scully scattered the medical reports across the desk in the private
office.  Lieutenant Witt closed the blinds of the large glass window,
shutting out any passerbies.  Scully looked back momentarily.  The
paranoia seemed so familiar, so Mulder.  He'd love this.  She could leave
the more gruesome aspects of the job to him.  Pouring over autopsy reports
never gave her the same thrill.
       Interesting, yes, but only in a detached way.  These were only
photos and facts, not people with lives and families.  If she started
thinking about that, she wouldn't be able to make the initial cut down the
breast bone.  All humanity was left outside the room.  All humanity had
fled from these photos.  Black and white, cold, sterile . . .  and odd. 
She recognized Senator Chadham's body. Certainly this was work for the
FBI, not the Seattle police department. "Can you tell me how you came to
be investigating these deaths?"
       "My partner and I worked in the Seattle police force.  There was
always enough work to do, but Joe easily bored with the ordinary.  He
looked for strange cases and he was so good at solving them, no one minded
if he did it on the side."
       Scully nodded, understanding completely. 
       "So when a prominent lawyer turned up dead, and in our district, he
jumped on the case.  That's the kicker.  The lawyer wasn't just well known
for the cases he's won.  His sexual trysts had become the most recent
focus.  Joe had a suspicion.  He put two and two together and treated all
subsequent, related deaths as murders." 
       "These autopsies . . . they seems to indicate heart failure," 
Scully flipped through, laid them out on the table.  "That seems to be the
conclusion of the doctors."
       "Which would be the obvious conclusion.  The men," Witt pointed to
the photo of the dead senator, "appeared to have been engaging in sexual
intercourse around the times of their deaths.  Heart failure is not
unusual, certainly not with men of their ages. 
       "If they were found in the hotels, certainly someone must have seen
the women they slept with."
       "You would think so," she smugly replied.  "The desk clerk didn't
pay much attention.  According to the statement," she pulled out another
folder, "The first victim, a William Conrad, entered with a blond woman
who was wearing a T-shirt and shorts.
  He doesn't remember her leaving.  He did spot, however, a woman leaving
the hotel that night, but she had brown hair and was wearing a polo shirt
and pants, about the same height as the first.  The clerk didn't look
closely, he wasn't looking for anything suspicious.  That's what he said
in our interview." 
       Scully mumbled, distracted by the crime photos. 
       "They all pretty much read the same way.  The latest death was more
noticeable.  Senator Chadham.  A man who hit the loneliest bar, hoping not
to be noticed after his affair exploded onto the TV and newspapers.  The
bartender served the senator several drinks, the last one purchased by
what the bartender described as,"  Witt flipped through the papers, " a
red headed woman, about thirty to thirty five, dressed casually.  The next
thing she knew, the senator was gone.  She guessed he left with the woman,
but couldn't say where they went or who the woman was.  And no one else
recalled seeing her that evening, in the bar, or coming or going from the
motel." 
       "Just because the man died of heart failure doesn't mean he was
murdered," Scully argued.
       Witt pointed to papers Scully had taken and laid on the table. 
"There were found traces of a substance around the mouths of the men."
       Scully flipped through the autopsies.  "It was found on all the
bodies," she turned to look at Witt.
       "Which makes me think we're dealing with murder and not accidental
death."  Witt pulled over a chair and sat down.  "Can you identify the
substance?"  Witt was sure she could, the shock and puzzlement that was
building on the Scully's face was enough to tell her that she did know. 
Far too well.
       "It's aconite," she slowly replied. 
       "So, Doctor Scully, what to you know about it?"  Witt tried to read
Scully's expression.  The agent's eyes were both serious and yet alive
with thought and possibility.
       "It's a poisonous substance," she raised her face to Witt.  "I
believe it's a drug that slows heart rate."
       "Anything else?" 
       "It's a plant, easily absorbed through the skin.  Sometimes used by
homeopaths, but only in very small doses." *Boy, Mulder*, she thought,
*you sure left at the wrong time.* Witt was the perfect compliment to
Mulder's neverending conspiracy theori


es, and this one seemed to top them all.  But Scully had worked with
Mulder for far too long to dismiss Witt outright.  Stranger things had
happened.  "It could be used to kill, but it's so toxic it's hard to
imagine the carrier not being poisoned themselves.  You found it on their
mouths.  Was there any evidence of aconite in the stomach?"
       "None in the stomach, none in the esophagus.  But enough in the
blood stream to cause poisoning." 
       "What did your partner think about this?" 
       "The next thing I knew, he was found dead in his apartment." 
       "Poisoned?" Scully asked, but she knew the answer.  Of course not. 
       Witt shook her head.  "That's the hardest thing to deal with.  From
what I understand, he opened the apartment door and let someone in.  He
was strangled with some sort of cord."  She closed her eyes and turned her
head away.  "We never found the murder weapon.  No prints, no sighting of
this person.  It was if the women who possibly killed the men came to make
sure he never caught them.  That happened almost two months ago.  Then
Senator Chadham was found dead one week later." 
       "Do you think he found the murderer?" Scully asked. 
       "He was close," she shrugged.  "Close to what I never found out." 
Pause.  "He could be private . . . he shut me out when he wasn't sure of
his own theories.  Maybe he knew." 
       "Knew what?" 
       "Maybe he didn't tell me because it was the only way to guarantee I
could find the murder.  Or murders.  Maybe he knew they wouldn't target me
right away."
       "Or maybe he was working on a hunch." 
       Witt shrugged.  "And I have no idea what he was following." 
       "So, where do we start?" 
       "We start looking at the information through my partner's
perspective."  She pulled away the photos from Scully and slid them back
into the folders.  "I booked a flight for three back to Seattle."  She
paused.  "There is no way to get Agent Mulder on this case?" 
       Scully shook her head.  "The two of us are not on the best terms
with the bureau right now.  Mulder and I aren't asking for favors.  We
won't get them.  But I can promise to assist you with both lines of
reasoning."  She paused.  "I will be open to what my partner calls
'extreme possibilities'." 

	They flew into Seattle under the heavy November clouds and
dropping temperatures.  It was Washington State as Scully has always
remembered it, each time she had flown in.  This was Witt's territory,
facing another ocean, as far away from DC as one couldget.  Maybe Scully
could get a vacation in, too, between the investigation.
       Witt drove the car directly from the airport to her partner's old
apartment building.  "I anxious to get you started before any evidence
disappears.  Too much time has gone by, and if anymore goes by, I don't
think there will be much to pick up on. 

" 
       Scully followed her into the apartment, observing everything in
silence, her mind preparing for whatever they found.  Logic argued the
idea of murder, but instinct had its place.  It wasn't about what one saw,
not all the time.  One could feel their way through facts. 
       They had taken the elevator up five floors and walked to the last
door in the hallway.  Witt pulled out the keys from her pocket.  "I think
I was in here last.  His family wants to collect his personal items," she
pushed open the door,"but I keep stalling for more time."
       Scully walked past Witt into the dark room.  "It's a murder scene. 
They can appreciate that, can't they?"
       "They do.  But they can't appreciate that his side hobby may have
cost him his life."  She walked over to a window and pulled up the shades. 
"It feels like a tomb in here."  She grunted as she pulled at the latch
and shoved up the pane.  Damp, cold air flooded in.  "That's better.  The
family," she motioned to the tape outline still on the rug, "the family
still thinks it was random." 
       "I may come to that conclusion as well.  Especially if we can't
find anything to substantiate your theory."  She caught the pained look on
Witt's face.  "I will keep an open mind and offer any views that Mulder
may have had."
       "Which would be?" 
       Scully picked up a book that rested on a coffee table and started
to flip through it.  "That we're looking for several killers.  For one
killer.  For one man or woman who is directing several killers.  For no
killers.  For an unusual curse or spell affecting only these men."  She
grinned.  "And there is always the possible governmental conspiracy.  Or
aliens or other worldly forces at work.  But then there is my theory." 
       "Yes?" 
       "That these mens' hearts gave out.  But I'm suspicious of the
presence of the drug.  I think that's worth looking into."  Witt nodded. 
"A possibility.  But I wouldn't rule out your other theories." 
       "I would rule out the aliens," she gravely replied, holding back a
smile. 
       "Agreed." 
       Scully slipped on a latex glove.  "You find anything unusual in his
apartment?"
       Witt threw her a look.  "You mean besides the usual male reading
material under the bed?"
       She sat down in front of the computer, eyeing it.  "His phone
messages, his E-mail.  Any recent downloads." 
       "Don't bother," witt pointed to the unit.  "The hard drive's been
erased and formatted.  Probably by the person who killed him." 
       Scully's eyes widened.  "And no one found that suspicious?" 
       "Joe's put people in jail.  I've put people in jail.  The idea that
someone may take revenge is not unusual."  She reached out for several
books piled near the computer.  "But this never looked or felt like
revenge.  Call it woman's instinct."  She flipped through the books,
holding them open for Scully to see.  Large sections had been roughly torn
out.  "Plants.  Mythology.  Legends.  But I've read through copies of
these books.  Nothing sheds light on what he was chasing." 
       "Agent Mulder knows first hand about disinformation.  So do I," she
continued to turn the pages of the badly mauled book.  "Maybe this is a
ploy to through you off the trail."
       Something fluttered out from between the pages.  Scully reached
down to pick it up, a small rough edged reproduction of an old botanical
etching.  She held it up to the light.  "Aconitum Napellus," she read. 
"Looks like it was ripped from a magazine."
       "That's odd.  I didn't see that last time I went through those
books."  Witt's eyebrows raised.  "Never learned latin.  What does that
mean?"
       Scully turned the image to her, a plant with oddly shaped blue
flowers.  "It's the latin name for aconite." 

(5/8)

       Mulder grumbled as he gathered up the photos and autopsy reports
that he scattered on top of the bed and side table.  Another day of
tracking, questions, and searching brought him no closer to an answer.  He
tried to find solace in the familiar, probing the photos for clues.
       He faxed a progress report to the AD, its almost cheery and
optimistic nature verging on nauseating.  But Mulder knew that such a
report would satisfy Kersh.  It might even allow for him to stall for
time.  They hadn't made any headway on the deaths, but that didn't mean
there wasn't an explanation.  Autopsies could be sloppy, unfinished.  If
they didn't know what to look for, a critical fact could be overlooked.
Critical facts were often overlooked on purpose, in an effort to hide the
truth.  He knew that firsthand.
       He didn't think this was a guarantee of remaining.  Kersh might
call him back to Washington, feeling that the job was finished.  No one
had been attacked or killed since his arrival.  A good sign. 
       Phillips noted the change but wasn't convinced of resolution.  "I
think if you can find a way to stay on a few more days, you may finally
experience it firsthand."
       Curiosity had always been his downfall and now he heard enough to
feed it.  Mulder didn't want another death to occur, there had to be
another way to witness this creature.  If there was such a creature. 
       The cell phone rang, interrupting his thoughts.  He scooped up the
remaining papers, tossed them on the pile and grabbed the phone from his
blazer, carelessly slung over the chair.  "Mulder." 
       "Kersh mentioned your report to me.  Glad to hear you haven't been
mauled to death."
       "Oh, hey Scully," he grabbed the TV remote off the nightstand. 
       "I'm getting the idea that you've forgotten I'm still in
Washington," she sat down hard on the edge of her bed.  She kicked off her
shoes, cupping her hand around the base of her neck.  "I thought you were
going to call."  She caught the knot and winced as she dug into it with
her fingers.  The wince turned into a satisfied groan.  "Things have been
odd here.  You'd like it." 
       "Uh, yea . . ."  Great.  He leaves the office, things pick up, and
Scully almost sounded coquettish.  "You OK?" 
       "Tired and annoyed."  She gave one more wince.  "My neck's killing
me." 
       "Oh."  She didn't sound tired and stiff though, Mulder thought. 
She sounded as if she had gotten into his porn collection.  She sounded as
if she *was* his porn collection.
       "How's the case going?" she asked. 
       "I've enjoyed the scenery.  And the rude New Jersey drivers.  And I
almost hit a deer yesterday."  Nothing on the TV.  Damn.  He snapped it
off.  "Otherwise, I'm running after a stupid dog and wild stories." 
       She smirked.  "No X-file, huh?" 
       "I can't even make one up," he flipped through the adult
entertainment guide.  There had to be something good to order for a late
night viewing.  "How are those background checks going?" 
       "Fine, fine," she mumbled, pulling off her pantyhose.  He'd love
the case she was working on with Lieutenant Witt.  All the more reason not
to mention it.  "But I am finally getting sick of Kersh." 
       "What?  Two months in?  I was sick of him from day one." 
       She blew a snort of laughter through her nose.  "I've tried to keep
an open mind."  Closed tight after her surprise visit from Witt.  Scully
didn't know what game Kersh was playing, but she refused to bend to him.
       "What does he have you working on, now that I'm gone?"  Mulder
couldn't hide the suspicion.  The moment he walks out of Washington,
opportunity falls in his partner's lap.  It had to be more interesting
than the wild goose chase the Assistant Director sent him on.
       "It's not worth mentioning.  So, when are you heading back?"  She
hid her anticipation well.  Devoid of attachment.  Or loneliness. 
       "It shouldn't be more than a day or two."  Half hearted.  The local
police wanted answers to reassure a panicky town and Kersh wanted a neatly
filed case.
       "Well, give me a call when you get back," she cheerfully added,
hoping to lift his spirits.  It was all she could muster to mask her real
mood.
       "I'll see you in Washington, won't I?" 
       "I don't know."  He was going to find out about Witt and the dead
officials sooner or later, yet she still thought it best not to discuss
it.  Not unless Mulder joined her in Seattle. 
       "The background checks," he blankly replied.  Damn it if Kersh
hadn't sent him out here to remove him from the picture"
       "It's along those lines." 
       Mulder knew Scully well and he knew well enough when she was hiding
something for him, usually to spare his feelings.  *Forget it*, he
muttered to himself.  The breakup was coming, better sooner than later. 
He could deal with it, he would learn to deal with it.  "Maybe I can drag
this out longer and get in that vacation you were urging me to take."
       "Maybe you can try to enjoy yourself," she gently chided.  "Just
don't forget to call me when your back.  And I want a postcard while
you're there."
       He weakly smiled.  "I'll see you, Scully." 
       He shut the cell phone, rested it on the nightstand next to his
gun, and thumbed through the cable guide one more.
       The cell phone twittered back to him. 
       He grabbed it off the stand in one long arc of his arm.  "Mulder." 
       "Well, that cuts through awkward introductions." 
       He didn't recognize the voice.  It wasn't Scully, who he half
expected to pick up on his failing optimism and call back.  "Excuse me?" 
       "We just answer the phone with a friendly hello.  But you do work
for the government.  Who knows what they say in Washington?"  She laughed. 
Church bells.
       "Miss Lewis." 
       "Penny." 
       "Penny."  He laid the TV guide back on the television.  This could
be far more interesting than cable.  He rubbed his eyes.  "It's late." 
       "I know." 
       First Scully, now this.  He shook his head.  "Was there something
you wanted to tell me?"
       "I was hoping you'd take me up on my offer." 
       "What offer?" 
       "To help you find the dog.  You haven't forgotten, have you?" 
       He hadn't forgotten it.  The odd way she grabbed his wrist when she
offered her assistance.  The day when she stood with her face in the sky,
miles away from reality, talking of witches while betony and hellebore
hung in her kitchen.
       "I'm working with Phillips at the moment," he hedged, hoping she'd
pick up on it.  *I'm not saying she's a liar, Agent Mulder* Phillips had
told him as they drove away from her house that day.  *But I do think
she's prone to fabrication and you don't want to feed into that.  I don't
need more rumors to dispel.*
       "But you haven't gotten far," she smugly concluded.  "It's simple. 
I'll give you hard evidence that this animal exists.  What you do with the
facts . . ." she sighed, "well, it's up to you."
       Mulder remained silent. 
       "Look, there's a full moon out tonight and it's as clear as
anything.  You won't get a better chance to see for yourself what has been
prowling Flagtown."
       *This is not an X-file.*
       *Oh, shut up*, he muttered to himself, sick of hearing Kersh's
voice at every turn, every thought.  Damn it, it wasn't an X-file, but
Mulder hadn't found a reasonable explanation, either.  There was only one
place to truly start. 

       He had to see this creature for himself. 

       She was waiting at the end of the driveway for him.  Mulder saw her
flag him down as he slowed near the house.  She pulled the car door open
before he had time to fully stop.  "Thought you had changed your mind," 
she swung in, covered in a black cape that fell down to her knees.
       "You dared me.  I don't flinch when I'm dared," he responded
sideways, his eyes fixed straight on the road and the lone streetlight.
       She caught the ridged stare and smirked.  "Well, you certainly
don't flinch when you drive."  She looked at his hands, clenching the
wheel, the strain lit and shadowed by the moonlight slicing through the
car.  She reached out, laying her hand over his.
       He pulled away.  "I don't like where this is going, Penny." 
       She removed her hand from the wheel, swinging herself forward in
the seat, staring at him face to face.  "You're married." 
       "No." 
       "Girlfriend." 
       He shook his head.  "Not in a while."  With all that had happened,
losing the X-files, the humiliation of his current position, he hadn't
noticed that it *had* been a long time.  And it didn't seem strange until
now.  Working for the FBI, running after UFOs . . . a social life simply
wasn't a priority.
       She grabbed his wrist, striking at him the way she had that day. 
He felt her fingernails push into his skin, testing the strength of his
will, testing his ability to hold back a sudden yelp of pain.  A hiss
escaped his lips.  He couldn't remember his old lovers ripping into his
flesh(although they all eventually clawed his ego to shreds) and it
probably wasn't good to encourage this behavior in a woman who was a total
stranger.  "Don't try to convince me of your stories, I didn't come here
to discredit you.  But I need proof," he tried to pull out of her grasp,
"I need more proof than your claims." 
       "Why are you doing this?" she gave his wrist one final dig before
pushing it back in his lap.  "Why do you want to want to make a fool out
of me?" 
       "What are you afraid of Penny?" he tossed back to her. 
       Her eyes opened wide, almost in shock.  "What makes you think I'm
afraid?"
       "Hellebore.  Betony.  They hang in your house." 
       "So?" 
       Even in panic she was haunting, he thought, as he marveled that the
moonlight knew just how to light her face.  Knew how to show every facet,
every emotion.  He struck a nerve when he mentioned the herbs.  Perhaps he
had been the first to notice, to see her.  To see her fear.  "They happen
to be two herbs that were used to defend against witchcraft.  Or evil.  I
can't imagine you fear witches," he flashed back to her in the yard,
smiling, welcoming them, "but I think you are afraid of something."
       "I have my crutches, my beliefs, *Fox*," she spit out his name like
a curse.  "What to you have?  You follow Phillips around, agreeing with
him when you know damn well that what is happening can not be neatly
explained.  Something is in this town, Fox.  You know it, I know it, and
that damn man knows it, too."
       "I never said I believed, Penny.  I came here to find the truth. 
Phillips thinks something's happening that cannot be neatly explained. But
what he thinks concerns me no more than what you do."
       She shook her head in contradiction.  "You don't feel that way. 
And damn you if you did." 
       "I work for the Federal Bureau of Investigation," he heard himself
repeating, loathing each word that he spoke.  "I can not go by stories or
rumors.  I have to find the answer to give to the town and to my
superior." 
       Penny sat back in the car seat, freeing a sigh as she rolled her
shoulders into the seat.  "I saw it when you came to my house a week ago. 
I *know* you, Fox," she raised her hand to his chin, gently turning his
face to hers. "There is a sadness in you," she tipped her head, staring
within his eyes, drawing him into her, "a longing.  Something is lacking. 
You're an animal in a trap.  It would be better to die than chew off a
limb and spend the rest of your life limping."
       "You presume to know me a little too well."  Not that he could
argue with her synopsis.  It was closer to reality than even he liked to
admit.  He stared at the crescent moons indented into his wrist.  They may
have well been the teeth marks of a leg trap.  He rubbed it to work out
the sharp pain, then realized a strange thing. 
       He liked it.  He relished it.  In a masochistic way, this was the
first real thing he felt in months.
       She set her eyes on the road.  "I'm not going to analyze you.  You
know what you are."  She paused.  "I'll show you what you want.  Drive," 
she commanded.

       The paved road gave way to unpaved, the headlights was the only
light to the road.  The countryside was lit by the moon, its contours
looking strange bathed in coolness.  Mulder had no idea where they were or
where they were going.  "We will follow the river," was the only thing she
told him.  And they had as they drove down River Road.  Mulder passed the
places that the bodies had been found, pointed out by Officer Phillips. He
could imagine those bodies fresh and warm, dragged and abandoned at the
river's edge, their last thoughts stunned by the attacks.  They probably
didn't die quickly, the coroner had reported.  Whatever that creature was
eating, it seemed to find its way into those people.  And poisoning them. 
       He shook his head, ridding his head of gruesome thoughts. 
       She grabbed the wheel suddenly.  "Make a right at the end of the
road.  Then make a left to go over the bridge." 
       He drove the car over the one lane bridge. 
       "Pull over," she pointed to the right. 
       He did as she said, rolling the car over dirt and grass.  "Where
are we?"
       "Where it all begins," she swung out of the car, pulling out her
lantern from the back seat.  She lit it with a match and held it up,
spilling light in Mulder's direction.  "The river." 
       She pointed towards the bridge, holding up the light in its
direction.  But her sights were not on the modern bridge they drove over. 
"It follows the river and it follows the tracks." 
       He joined her as she walked towards the bridge.  High to their
right, sliced and illuminated by the moon, stood the skeleton of past
events.  "The railroad trestle." 
       She nodded.  "The old tracks, the ones that hasn't been in service
for God knows how long.  The dog is not the only one drawn.  The deer have
always crossed where the rails once crossed Clawson Avenue.  Time may
change things, Fox, but the energy remains."
       The white metal bridge they drove over stood out clearly in the
lunar light.  He ran his hand on the railing, stepped onto it, always
keeping the old trestle in clear view.  "You think it'll be out tonight?" 
       She slid next to him, set the lantern down, and slipped her hand
into his.  "What do you think, Fox?" 
       *What do I think?* His mind spun with expectation and disbelief. 
What was he supposed to think?  She had clawed him, teased him, and was
now clearly throwing him double-entendres.  He cleared a nervous cough
from his throat, adding his own tease.  "I'm feeling hopeful."
       She shut her eyes, tipped her head back to the stars.  "Anything is
possible on nights like these"  She opened them again, turning to Mulder. 
"I've seen him on nights like these.  But we won't find him, he knows how
to find us."
       He nervously drew his right hand to his holster.  There were
advantages to being an agent.  Carrying a weapon was one of them. 
       She saw the apprehension flicker on his face.  "Don't worry.  It
won't harm us.  It won't harm *me*.  It's not the monster that you've been
told."  Pause.  "Why do I get the feeling you aren't used to skulking in
the dead of night?"

       "For the first time this evening, Penny, you're dead wrong."  He
stopped walking and paused to lean over the side of the bridge.  The river
rippled and flowed, shimmering in the moonlight.  He could hear the muted
splash of water, nothing else.  His breath puffed out in large, white
billows.  "That's all my life was.  I chased everything I could."  He
turned to her and laughed.  "I would have chased my own shadow if someone
pointed it out."
       "Why aren't you doing it now?" 
       *Actually*, he thought, *I am doing it now, against my better
judgement.  Against the wishes of my superior.* "Because no one wants to
see what's really there.  I poke my head into the wrong places.  I'm
always getting in trouble.  So they stopped me from looking."  He picked
up a stray rock and chucked it into the river.  "Now I'm in a job where my
partner and I are lucky if we catch a farmer who's ordered just a little
too much fertilizer to make the government nervous.  In every sense, I am
up to my armpits in shit."  He abruptly laughed.  It wasn't funny, it was
maddening, and he laughed out of anger.  She couldn't possibly understand. 
Penny was trying to prove the existence of one small dog, Mulder had
thrown himself headlong into the never ending pursuit of truth.
       They had not stopped him.  He was only waiting for the moment that
placed him back with the X-files.  The time would come when Spender and
Fowley would not be able to handle the job, when something exploded in
their faces and left them helpless and crippled. 
       It was inevitable. 
       He weakly smiled at her.  "But I haven't changed, Penny.  They
can't change me.  I'm still looking up at the stars.  I still believe. 
You see that?" he pulled her over to him and pointed his finger in the
sky.  "Second star on the right, straight on till morning?"
       She looked up and joined her hands with his.  "Never never land," 
she whispered, her voice tiny bells.
       He turned away, shrugged his shoulders and resumed staring into the
water. 
       She leaned over to joined him in staring.  "I stayed out all night
when I was six looking for leprechauns.  I used to read about Ichabod
Crane and wish the headless horseman would come galloping through town." 
She paused in thought, then broke out laughing.  "I used to step into
toadstool rings because my mother told me that if I stepped into one, I
would be cursed to dance forever.  It's fairy magic, she would say.  I
can't tell you how many I stepped into.  I tried to dance forever . . ." 
she trailed off and stared out into the darkness.  "But it never happened. 
Still," she turned and smiled at him, "I dance in fairy rings anyway
whenever I come across them.  I just have to step in the right one.  I
think one day I will." 
       She reached up to him and he reached down to her, the moon makes
people crazy, thought Mulder, and there is nothing more insane than
chasing after myths and X-files.  But he had to, he must, there was
nothing else for him than this one hope.  And as he felt himself being
drawn into her world, he knew she was being drawn into his, and all they
had was this one hope that someone believed them. 
       Her kiss on his lips was full and forceful . . . and warm.  The
night was cold and he was chilled but now he felt the balmy summer
evenings full of sweet honeysuckle in her breath and in her mouth.  It was
heaven.
       His hand pushed to his forehead, he pulled away from her.  He had
suddenly become overwhelmed, dizzy.
       "Fox!" she pulled on his jacket.  "Fox, you have to see this!" 
       He pulled his hand away, trying to steady his vision and his head. 
She had run halfway across the bridge, motioned rapidly to him.  He
ignored the vertigo and chased after her, down the bridge and down the
road they drove up on.
       She stood under the overpass, crouched down at its base.  Mulder
joined her, kneeling at her side.  He craned to see what she had seen, but
there was nothing.  He could barely see her in the darkness but he felt
her warmth by his side, could still taste her on his lips.
       "Look," she whispered in his ear. 
       Mulder strained to make out the landscape held in light and shadow. 
Penny's finger pointed up to the old railroad trestle, but he saw nothing. 
       Wait.  He did see something. 
       The movement was small and melted into the shadows, but the flicker
of light on a form was discernible.
       His breath caught in his throat. 
       The dog. 
       It lifted its head to the heavens, almost in bliss, the wind
blowing through its long ruff of fur.  It stood balanced on the
unbelievably old trestle like a cat, testing the air for sound, taste,
smell.  He could see the scarring on its back, the dried, black blood on
its fur.  The grace, the beauty of distance was gone.  This creature had
been in battles and fought till the death.  But not its death. 
       Its lips curled, revealing one long white tooth.  The snarl
surfaced from deep within.
       "Hell, Fox.  The sound of hell," she whispered into his ear as she
knelt next to him.  "The voice of Cerberus." 
       "Dog of Hades," he replied, awed by the sight. 
       "Legend tells," her murmur steady with authority, "that Cerberus
raged and foamed onto aconite."
       Mulder watched cautiously as the animal eyed him, saliva dripping
from its muzzle.  He fumbled for his gun.  "I know the story."  he
steadied his hand on the trigger.  "The saliva made the plant one of the
deadliest plants known.  But this is the real world, Penny."  He drew his
weapon.
       It caught the glint on the barrel, jumping into the thick brush. 
       "Damn," he muttered loudly. 
       She sounded her high laugh, watching Mulder jump off the ground and
sprint after it.  "Just what are you trying to do?" she called out after
him.
       He slowed his pace, stopped after a few half hearted footfalls and
turned back to her.  She was walking up the road to meet him, the shawl
billowing behind her as it caught the wind. 
       He caught his breath and gestured to the road with his gun.  "What
the hell was that?" he hollered to her.
       "That, Fox, is what you came to discredit.  That is a legend in the
making,"

       Mulder woke to the morning sun hitting him full in the face,
stretched out on the couch where he spent the night.  He put a hand over
his eyes to shut it out.  It shone through the spaces between his fingers
and he pushed himself up to dodge the light.  He ran a hand through his
hair, knowing early morning did not flatter his looks. 
       She sat at the kitchen table, flipping through the morning paper,
the familiar cup of yellow tea in hand.  Penny paused to take a sip,
skimming her finger down an article.  The sun streamed through the window,
hitting the paper and her head, setting her face in a glow.
       "Hey," he called out to her. 
       She nodded her greetings, then turned back to her paper. 
       Mulder staggered over and sat down in the chair opposite to her. 
"I hope I wasn't an inconvenience.  Thanks for letting me stay last
night."  He rubbed his eyes.  "That had to be the damnedest headache.  I
never get dizzy," he reached out for her hand and closed his over hers. 
"But that animal.  That was . . ." the cloudiness had not left.  He found
only one word in his head.  "Amazing.  That was amazing." 
       She folded the paper.  "I'm leaving for New Hampshire." 
       "That's rather quick." 
       She shook her head as she drank.  "Not at all.  I received a call
yesterday that a plant I was hunting down has become available.  I have to
go to pick it up"  She picked herself up, grabbed the cup and saucer and
dumped them in the dishpan.
       "When are you coming back?" he called out after her. 
       She did not turn back to look at him.  She could never read their
expressions, often flattery disguised itself as affection.  But she heard
hope woven into his serious professionalism.  She didn't think Fox Mulder
let attachment get in the way of his work often.  She turned, his
expression matching his voice.
       She had never trusted such looks before. 
       She let a genuine smile light on her face.  "Just a day or two.  I
promise.  I'll ride back on the wind." 
       When she disappeared down the hall, he turned his attention to the
paper she had been reading and flipped it open.  He thought her attention
may have been grabbed by a local interest story, but the paper was not
local.  He rubbed his forehead in puzzlement. 
       The headline read, "CEO admits to numerous affairs." 

(6/8)

       The night's events hung on Mulder like the odd dull feeling that
lingered in his head.  The dog, the chase through lightless roads and
rough fields, Penny and her cruel teasing seemed unreal.  He glanced down
at his wrists, the cuffs failing to cover the telltale marks.  Last night
happened.  And despite her oddness(Penny was stranger than himself, but
not by much, Mulder thought)  he was grateful to her, she had brought him
the proof he needed, a place to start.
       Daylight spoiled the magic.  He pulled out onto Route 206 from the
hotel, squinting at the mourning sun slanting through the windshield.  He
had made time for a shower and shave before heading to the police station,
warning Phillips by phone of his impending good news before cleaning up.
       Mulder felt a guilty flush as he entered the hotel room that
morning.  Last night had excited him.  And it wasn't just the unknown of
the animal, it was her.  He entered the bathroom, unbuttoning his shirt as
he passed through the door.  His reflection caught his eye, tired and
rumpled.  What did she see when she looked at him?  He knew what he saw in
Penny, the little witch who's kisses engulfed him in summer.  She breathed
out a garden and he wanted to be in her gates.
       That's just the despair talking, he snapped back, stepping into the
hot spray of water.  He was here to analyze a situation before it got out
of control.  The logical always brought him back to her.  She crept into
his mind at every turn, blowing her leaves across logic, laughing at his
damn stubbornness.  He did feel the connection between her and the animal,
but it was only a perception, the old familiar sense he used in the
X-files.  It had no place in this situation.

       "You *saw* it?" Phillips asked incredulously, raising his brow in
shock.  Agent Mulder hadn't been in town long and already he was
accomplishing what he couldn't.  Envy filtered through his voice.  "I
assume you found it, rather than it finding you."
       "I *was* looking for it.  But I could have bumped into it." 
       Phillips shook his head.  "If it had found you, I don't think we'd
be having this conversation."
       Mulder grinned.  "I'd be lying in the morgue if I had.  Or, at
least, the hospital."
       Phillips nodded. 
       Mulder leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms.  "I didn't
think you believed in this creature."
       "Look, Agent Mulder, something is roaming the town.  Something is
killing people.  I'm still not sure if they are one in the same.  I know
Ms. Lewis would have you think otherwise . . ." Phillips stared at
Mulder's expression.  It transformed the moment he mentioned her.  "What? 
Did she say something about the dog?"
       Mulder shifted in his seat, giving his tie a tug.  "She helped me
find it.  We took a drive down by the river and into Neshanic Station.  We
chased after it." 
       "She's crazy!" he laughed at Mulder.  "I've asked her time and
again to give me some proof but she couldn't be bothered.  I told you,
she's prone to fabrication." He pointed a finger at Mulder.  "She's found
a sympathetic ear to listen to her nonsense."
       "She offered to assist me, Phillips.  In my line of work, I listen
to the supposed quacks as much as the professionals.  their point of view
is often unspoiled by reason or science."
       "Meaning?" 
       "They tell it like it is." 
       Phillips rubbed his upper lip between his fingers.  "What are we
dealing with, Agent Mulder?"
       Fantasy.  Myth.  Skinned creatures that run railroad trestles, a
woman who barred herself against evils.  All hanging like leaves in the
autumn trees, swept by the wind down river.
       Mulder swallowed and steadied his mind.  "In reality, we are
dealing with a stray dog and people with an overactive imagination."
       Phillips gave a sigh of relief.  "It's something that we can
control."
       "I think it's something you can capture.  I think it's best exposed
for what it is."
       "It wound be better off dead," Phillips flatly replied. 
       "And then you'd really create a myth." 
       Perhaps, Phillips thought.  But it would be better than picking up
mangled bodies, lying to the town that the danger was under control.  They
may never capture it, never mind kill it.  It if ever crossed his path,
Phillips knew what he would do.  "  The two of us should visit Lewis. 
Maybe get a little clarification on this siting." 
       Mulder shook his head.  "Too late.  She's gone on a trip." 
       Phillips caught the blue nail prints on his wrist.  "Lewis left?" 
       Mulder yanked the sleave down in an attempt to cover the bruises. 
"Something about picking out a plant for her collection."
       Phillips raised an eyebrow.  "Did she mention what she was picking
up?" 
       "No." 
       Phillips nodded slowly.  "It could be harmless, could be business." 
       "What else would it be?"  Damn it, he angerly thought.  Lewis and
Phillips kept hedging around truth, both afraid to speak their minds, both
angry that he dealt with the other. 
       "Agent Mulder, in every attack that has occurred, Ms. Lewis was out
of the state.  She always had a trip, a meeting, a reason to be gone. 
It's always been a little too convenient for me."
       "That does not make any sense, Phillips," Mulder felt himself
becoming exasperated and he knew it showed on his face. 
       "I told you, Agent Mulder.  If you can extend your stay, you'll see
for yourself what's happening.  Draw your own conclusions," he folded his
arms on top of the desk, "after all, that's why you're here."

       They managed to keep the reporters out.  Thank God, thought Edward
Chaplin.  He balanced the flute of champagne in his cupped palm, watching
as his guests past by, all lavishly dressed.  Holding a party in the midst
of potential scandal was not wise, his advisors had pointed out.  It
couldn't do him any more harm, he argued.  What was the problem to begin
with?  He liked women.  He hired escorts from time to time.  What was the
big deal about slapping one across the face?  The dress ripped
*accidentally*, he emphasized to the police.  He was just trying to help
her off the ground.  That's right, she fell, he barked back when she
accused him of throwing her down.  He didn't believe she hadn't seen her
share of bruises.  And who were you going to believe anyway, a seven
hundred dollar a night whore or the vice president of one of the leading
HMO's?
       The papers ran with it, of course.  They waited for these stories
to surface, pouncing on them with avarice.  No one ever criticized the
real perverts in society; people who got their jollies watching someone
else get there's.  But he found arguing such points at times like these
was mute.  It didn't help his image, even if the media catered to the
sexual appetites of the masses.
       He turned his attention back to observation, occasionally gesturing
to those he knew.  Keep smiling, nice and pretty, he remembered as he felt
his face becoming less and less casual.  The ladies came in on the arms of
men, two by two the passed into the room.  A tinge of jealousy pricked at
him.  He wondered if he could muster up enough charm to blast past his
tarnished image.  And if what he lacked in charm, he made up with his bank
account.  It might be enough tonight, despite the scandal in the papers.
       She walked into the room, unescorted.  He saw her present her
invitation to the doorman and slide off her velvet cape.  Good figure, he
murmured to himself, good looks.  Blond hair, green eyes.  Not anyone he
knew.  Could be good, could be bad.  Could be a late arrival date of one
of his guests.
       Her red dress brushed the floor, hugging her figure like skin.  The
neckline scooped down low, showing off her alabaster neck and full, high
breasts.  She walked through the crowded room towards him(the crowd
actually split and made way for her, he marveled).  Did he know her?  Did
she know him?  And was she heading in his direction to satisfy a curiosity
about his famous night?
       A gentle tap on the shoulder made him turn.  He greeted a male
guest with a firm handshake.  His thoughts were on the woman who was
heading his way.  *Don't seem to eager.  Keep the upper hand.*
       "Excuse me," a voice sweetly interrupted. 
       Chaplin turned, knowing full well who spoke to him.  *Too good to
be true.* He knew gloating was premature, a childish response to her
beauty.  "I'll be with you in a minute." 
       "I will make you famous," she whispered into his ear. 
       "Yea, right," he turned to resume his conversation. 
       She yanked on his arm.  "Don't think I can do it?" 
       "Fame I have," he remarked, irritated.  "Too much publicity at the
moment.  I don't need more fame." 
       Her hand locked around his wrist.  "I offered to change your life
and you turn your back on me."
       "Excuse me," he pulled his hand away, "but do I know you?" 
       "Not yet," she coyly smiled.  "But you will." 
       He walked away from the stairs where he had kept watch.  She
followed, past the growing crowd, to the chair he had fallen into with an
annoyed groan.  "Did Stevens send you as a joke?" 
       She shook her head. 
       "Look at me," he sat back and gestured to the room.  "There is
nothing you can give me.  Take you, for example," he leaned over and
tugged on her dress.  "Nice outfit.  Hair's decent.  It might have put you
back monetarily, but that's just a drop in the bucket for me.  Still, I
can't buy what I really want."
       "You mean this?" she smoothed her hands over her waist and down her
thighs.
       "I tried."  He found himself smiling at the irony of it.  The hell
with everyone.  They all knew what he did, she knew what he did, no point
in being discreet anymore.  He lost that days ago.  "You can't blame a man
for trying.  I guess . . ." he watched her kneel before him, her eyes full
and engulfing.  He felt himself slowly drawn in, the eyes, the lips, the
little witchy smirk in the right corner of her mouth.  "The Beatles said
it first.  Can't buy me love."  He suddenly laughed.  "And you don't argue
with the walrus."
       "You don't know of my power.  I can change everything."  She
planted her hands in his lap, leaning forward into his face.  "I can make
it all go away."
       She ended with a long lingering kiss, and she flashed through his
mind, summer and fall and winter.
       He flashed through her mind. 
       Dead under the ice. 

       Her phone startled her out sleep.  She stumbled her hand across the
nightstand, felt for the phone and pushed the receiver to her face.
"Scully," she mumbled, barely alert.
       "Agent Scully, it's Witt."  Her voice was breathless. "There's been
another death."
       She brushed her hair out of her eyes.  "When?" 
       "Right now, dead in a hotel, just like the others." 
       "Who?" 
       "You're not going to believe it.  Richard Chaplin.  Currently in
the news for roughing up an escort.  The body's warm.  If it's a murder
and it's by the hands of the same persons . . . "
       "Then there should be evidence," Scully finished.  "I'll get the
body sent to Washington for the autopsy.  Have the local PD lock off the
room and treat it as if it were a crime scene.  Get out there and oversee
the investigation.  I'll stay on here to autopsy the body." 

       She had learned to live with irratic hours, packing her bags at a
minutes notice, driving into work at all hours in the morning.  Mulder
always seemed far more awake and enthusiastic to pour over evidence and
bodies in the dead of night.  Scully would have preferred sleep.  But this
was her work. 
       She felt a tingle of anticipation as she drove down the highway. 
Odd. 
       *You've got to come down tonight, Scully.  You've got to confirm my
theory.*
       She shook her head.  "Stop that, Mulder."  She wrapped her hands
tightly around the wheel.  She wanted to be meeting him down at Quantico,
to hear the reasons that she would refute, to sense his energy again.  She
lived for it, she lived *in* it.  It infused her with life, as much as her
rational stabilized him.

       "Aconite.  The lab confirms aconite."  She balanced the phone on
her shoulder, pulling off the latex gloves.  "We're finding the same
substance around the mouths and in the bloodstream.  But not enough around
the mouth to cause poisoning, even by absorption.
       "You don't think that's how they were killed?" 
       "I don't know what to tell you, Witt.  I think this man was
murdered, but I have no idea how.  I think the only person who knew was
your partner."
       "My God," she whispered.  "What did he find out?" 
       Scully shook her head, staring at the lab results.  "I think you
should get back here ASAP.  It's time to look at the evidence again.  I
think the answer is here." 

       The headlights of the car swung into the driveway.  Mulder held up
his hand to block out the light, squinting to make her out in the car.  He
stood up, rubbing his arms against the growing cold.  He only felt it now. 
His blood boiled with suspicion and anger.  Two days ago, he was standing
before a resident's house, hearing the story of yet another attack.
Phillips had been right.  She seemed to know this animal best, could she
possibly be directing it mentally from a distance?  Mulder didn't think he
could fax that little tidbit back to Kersh, it sound too weird, too
spooky, too Mulder.
       He shifted his weight and waited for her to emerge. 
       She didn't spot him at first, but as she made he way up the walk,
the sight of a tall lanky man made her start.  She backed up a step, then
pointed a small penlight in his direction.  "God, you scared me," her hand
went to her chest as she caught her breath.  "What are you doing here,
Fox?"
       "I looked for your dog, Penny." 
       She stood in the drive way, staring at the agent planted on her
doorstep.  "I told you . . ." 
       "It's not your dog.  I know."  He crossed his arms, blocking her
path.  "Phillips told me each time you've been away, the dog has killed
someone.  While you were gone, it attacked another person." 
       She drew breath through tight lips, her face whitening.  "Another
death?"
       "No, they managed to escape," he studied her face.  He couldn't be
sure if her concern was for the person or the animal.  "A woman was taking
groceries out of her trunk.  She rolled in and slammed it shut." 
       "I'm glad for her," Penny remarked tersely. 
       "It shattered the windows, punctured the tires and attempted to rip
open the hatch."
       She shook her head.  "So, you've been sitting on my doorstep at
eleven o'clock at night to tell me that what I've warned the town about is
not a figment of my imagination?  I *know* what I've seen." 
       "Tell me how to find it." 
       She slipped her hand around his wrist.  "Really, Fox.  Why have you
come to me?"
       He swallowed hard.  "If I can clear you of suspicion, then we can
come closer to the truth." 
       "No.  That is not why you are here."  She clamped her hand shut,
trapping him.  "You want to see, you want to know.  Not yet, Fox."  She
unlocked the front door.  "Come in, if you like."  Swinging it open, she
gestured him though.
       *There had to be reason in her*, he told himself.  *If I believed
her unmovable, I wouldn't ever pass over the thresh hold.* "You have to
tell them.  You have to help the authorities find it.  Penny," he whirled
her around, holding her shoulders in his hands, "they plan to destroy it,
with or without your help."
       Her eyes flashed rage, but she remained mute. 
       "Look, I know how you feel," he responded truthfully, "but you have
to appreciate my position."
       She cocked her head and looked at him oddly.  "You're still
curious, even though I have given you the truth.  I can't give you what
you want to hear.  I can only give you what I know.  I can only give you
what I am.  Why do you want neither?"  She reached to him again.  Her kiss
filled him with the same warmth of exotic gardens. 
       He pulled away.  "I came here . . ." his hand flew to his head,
filled with the same vertigo as before, "I came here to confront you on
the rumors before Phillips could.  I *believe* you, Penny.  I believe this
animal exists.  It might not be . . .  " he rubbed his eyes, feeling the
dizziness pass.  " . . . it might not be the mythologic creature you say
it is, but I am willing to explore the possibilities."
       She smiled.  "That sounded like a proposition." 
       "I . . . guess it is." 
       She took his hand gently.  "I told you, you came here for a
reason."
       "I have no motive."  The truth. 
       "Well," she cupped her hand around the back of his neck, "maybe I
do." 

       Mulder followed her up the stairs, his head still spinning.  A
numbness had developed in his hands which he shrugged it off.  He tasted
nervousness and he knew why.  He knew what waited up those stairs.  But
now he knew he was powerless to stop it.


       He entered her bedroom as she struck a match.  The smell of sulfur
drifted in his direction.  She lit candles, keening wordless hymns as she
circled the room, her voice rising and falling with the rhythm of her
steps, in and out and sliding toward him.  He cleared his throat.  *Focus,
Mulder*#.  He swallowed hard.  "Penny, you have to tell me how to capture
that animal." 
       "I could tell you.  You can keep telling yourself that is why you
came but I know you.  I like you, Fox," her voice sincere, dropping a
notch into a whisper.  "I could never hurt you." 
       He shook his head as she pulled at his shirt and flicked the
buttons open.  "I can't do this." 
       She stopped midway down, quirked her eyebrow and looked up at him
slyly.  "Don't think.  Don't reason," she drew away from him and walked
over to the nightstand.  He looked on in confusion as she pulled out a
length of cord.  She turned back to him wrapping it around her arm and
unwrapping it, then holding it tight in her hand.  "Let it go." 

       Of course, Phillips muttered as he pulled by Lewis' house, Mulder's
rental car parked on the side of the road.  He saw the look on Mulder's
face earlier in the week when he mentioned Lewis.  Pure guilt.  "Maybe
this is the norm for him," he said out loud, disgusted, "but it ruins any
chance of his being objective."
       Not that he wouldn't if he was in Mulder's shoes.  Who could blame
him?  Lewis was a strange and beautiful woman. 
       He looked up to the rear view mirror.  Something flashed by the
back of the car. 
       He spun the car around, kicking up gravel, fish tailing the back of
the patrol car.  The dog.  That goddamn dog.  What else could it be?  He
saw the bare white body shimmer past and run down the river's path. 
Phillips would follow it.  Mulder didn't have the guts to kill it, but he
did.
       He parked the car on the side of the road, grabbed a flashlight and
headed off into the night, following the road that led to the bridge, old
and new.  The lack of moonlight made it difficult to see, he *had* to miss
the full moon that was out a week ago.  Phillips shrugged off the feeling
of nervousness.  A dog.  Just a dog.  It could be Lassie or Old Yeller or
Snoopy for all he cared.  At the first sight, he was blowing off its
goddamn head and ridding Lewis of her myth maker.  No dog, no more
stories.  That should stop the deaths. 
       He walked onto the Neshanic Bridge, scanning around him with the
flashlight.

       Long strands of saliva dripped from its mouth as it watched from
the shadows.

       The flush of anxiety came up into Mulder's mouth, the taste he
relished but came so unfrequently, the feeling he knew was unnatural,
unhealthy.  Fear could be a powerful force, it could be a welcome emotion,
it could make one feel alive.
       She stood neatly in front of him, not saying a word, her eyes deep
with power and manipulation.  She breathed out, her mouth pursed in a
perfect "O", her tongue pressing against her bottom teeth, turning into a
hiss. 
       Her hands clenched, lifted to him, and pushed him down onto the
bed. 
       He fell hard, unable to stand against her will. 
       She sprang on top of him, pushing his hands up to the wrought iron
bed.  She grabbed both hands in hers and made the pass of the cord once,
twice, tied the knot, cinched it tight and pulled a second time until he
cried out in pain.
       She smiled, falling down on top of him, mauling his lips with hers. 
       "Tell me what you want," she slid her hands against his arms. 
       "This," he mumbled, numb. 
       She kissed him, digging her nails into his arms as she pressed
harder with her lips.
       A second wave a dizziness came over him.  *It caught up, finally*,
he thought to himself through the adrenaline rush, *what Scully knew all
along*. 

       He slapped his hands together in an attempt to warm them. The early
unseasonable cold was setting in.  Not a night to be walking around to be
stumbling around.  What was the hell was it about November, cold one year
and balmy the next?  He swung his flashlight in an arc onto the road and
the trees, the play of light and dark eerily glared back at him.  No wind,
no cars, no sounds of tree rustling, just the crunch of leaves beneath his
feet as he took long, solid steps.  Stupid goddamn dog.  Why couldn't
Lewis cooperate and end this chase? 
       He stopped in his tracks, held his breath in anticipation. 
       He turned around at the low growl behind him. 
       He knew what it was. 
       It stood there, hackles raised, it's white, bloodless eyes wide and
frozen.  It growled again, saliva dripping in large strands from it's
mouth.
       Phillips grabbed his gun with stiff hands.  He fumbled as he took
the safety off. 
       The animal swayed back slightly, raised its haunches. 
       He shot into it. 
       It sprang, bearing down into his arm with razor sharp teeth. 
       The gun fired twice before Phillips dropped it. 

       "I like you, Fox," she whispered, her breath the autumn air, the
warm and chill and approaching death.  "You came to New Jersey for me." 
She ran her finger over the contours of his face.  "You came to me
tonight, and you are safe here."
       "Because of the herbs," he accused.  "Because of the magic." 
       "They will not have me," she stared over his head at the wall, her
face transforming into stone.  "They will never have me, and they will
never have you."
       "I don't understand." 
       She rose up, sitting on his chest, and brought both outstretched
hands to her breast.  "I keep the evil out.  They can not enter, they can
never really have me."
       Mulder's head spun, trying to comprehend her words.  They made no
sense.  She made no sense.  He shook his head, trying to clear his mind. 
"And the dog?  Does that dog protect you?" 
       "You don't know my powers, Fox.  I protect myself." 

       It locked into his arm. 
       *I'm dead, oh god, I'm . . .*
       It snarled, letting go, thrust into his tight as he tried to kick
it.  Phillips screamed again, the pain intensifying as the teeth sunk in. 

       The room spun as she kissed, deeper and deeper, her hands running
down his chest, catching the button of his pants.  "I know what you want," 
she whispered.  "I know why you came.  I know why they all come."  Her
hair, though hanging in her face, could not obscure the grin that slowly
spread across her face.  She caught his chin with a swipe of her right
hand and blankly stared at him.  "You want me." 
       He nodded through the fog. 
       She pushed herself off the bed, turned her head to look back at
him.  "Not tonight."  She kicked her toe past his shirt, headed out of the
room. 
       He laid there, the vertigo still spinning his head and tipping the
room.  She barely touched him, yet he was flying out of his body, out of
breath, stunned.  He tugged at the restraints.  The game was finished and
he wanted out.  He didn't think he could walk out of her house right now,
in this condition.  Crawl, maybe. 
       He swung his eyes around the room.  More herbs, more candles. 
       To kept the evil out, or so she said. 
       She only kept the evil at bay. 

       She walked in the bathroom, sitting down on the cold toilet seat
cover.  Her head swayed into her hands, her fingers reaching into her
scalp.  She loosened it and let it slip, let it fall at her feet.  The red
wig fell in a soft bundle at her toes.

       The mirror never lied.  She stood up and stared into it, running
her hands over her head, the short, scarce, white hair.  The hands fell
down her neck, clenched her shoulders, and pulled at her arms.  She
reached over the sink, opened her eyelid with a finger and popped out the
contact.
       One blue eye and one grey eye looked back. 
       White as the winter. 
       Grey as the sky. 

(7/8)

       Scully hummed to herself as she road the elevator up to Mulder's
apartment.  It had become routine, usually taken care of after work, to
feed his fish and check his messages.  The cool grey Saturday begged to be
filled with some occupation, so Scully found the car driving itself to his
place.  Shopping could occupy her on the way, some sort of break from the
case she had been working on with Witt.  They had the body and evidence
sent back to Washington and the FBI crime lab.  Aconite poisoning but no
killer, just a handful of women who were somehow involved.
       Scully's head was spinning as she worked until one o'clock last
night with Witt, comparing the autopsies of the other men.  Aconite.  What
was so important about it?  Why were these women using it, assuming that
they were the killers in the first place?  And could it be, Scully
propositioned, not several women but one woman, changing her identity each
time?  It was just a guess based not on experience but desperation.  The
phycological makeup of potential killers eluded her.  That was Mulder's
job,honed years before her met her, working in the violent crimes section.
       She suddenly regretted years of challenging him, missed
opportunities to learn his instinct.  She needed it now.  She needed him
now, more than she ever realized.
       She looked to Witt and Witt was lost without her partner.  Scully
was slowly becoming Witt and now they were looking to each other to find
the reasons that the tragedy happened.
       Witt was right.  Her partner had to be close.  And the killer knew
it. 
       The key slipped into the lock so easily as if it welcomed her, knew
she was coming.  It clicked hello as it had every day.  She knew to fed
the fish when Mulder was gone.  He had given her a copy of his key long
ago for this purpose.  She could come and go as she pleased in his
apartment.  She usually didn't. 
       Stale, empty air met her as she walked through the door.  She shut
it behind her, her footsteps sounding hollow against the floor. There was
no mistaking the feeling which came in stronger waves day after day.  But
she would ignore it.  She walked over, quickly fed the fish, turned around
and looked back at the empty coach where he slept. 
       And then she realized.  He was gone. 
       Her vision suddenly blurred.  She lurched forward and threw herself
to the couch.  She had to sit, had to stabilize, had to put something
solid between her and the floor.  Her hands went up to her eyes, then
pulled away, wet with tears.
       She stared at her hands and the wet, shocked and confused, all the
time her mind repeating the endless loop of logic she had programmed into
herself . . . you never cry, pull yourself together . . . you never cry,
pull yourself together. 
       But the apartment was empty.  And no one was waiting outside for
her.  Logic could not dictate emotion.  Or soften loss. 
       She could let go, let it all go, here in his apartment, here on his
couch.  The fear, the terrors they had endured in pursuing the X-files. 
The nightmares of her own life as she struggled with her abduction and
subsequent cancer.  She had to be strong for him. 
       But he was gone.  The tears slid down her face.  She gave one quick
sigh, then two more, finally breaking down, giving herself up to misery.
       Her work in the FBI was making her miserable.  She envied Mulder's
chance to get away, even for a few weeks, and the opportunity to work on
an X-file like case.  She had her own X-file, but wasn't making any
headway.  She needed Mulder as much as he seemed to need her.  She just
never make a point of telling him.
       Her eye caught the bookcases and the old volumes he had piled
haphazardly in them.  "Hello, old friends," she murmured, running her
fingers along the spines.  Mulder had attempted to replace most of the
books he had lost in the fire, hunting down the obscure titles one by one.
She smelled the old dusty smell that still lingered in them.  They had
probably been hidden away in some attic or cellar out of the light, left
to mildew away to memory.  They were meant to reside in the basement of
the FBI building, but for now they had to be content living in his
apartment. Books had personalities and spirit.  They seemed out of place
in daylight. Somethings are better left in the shadows.
       She had gotten used to the dark.  Life in the light wasn't suiting
her, either.
       The last tear made its way down her cheek and she brushed it away
without much thought.  She scanned the titles, hoping to find something to
give her insight to the bizarre deaths.  "Something on plants, something
on herbs," she ran her fingers up and down.  There had to be a volume or
two in his collection. 
       She bent down and craned to read the spine from a lower shelf. 
"Plants and Magic," she mumbled out loud, pulling the dark red book from
it's resting spot.  "The man reads the strangest books." 
       He probably *hadn't* read it, she reasoned, people collected books
like mugs or postcards or hotel soap.  Those items were probably also
somewhere in the apartment, but Scully didn't feel like going on a hunt of
Mulder's personal life.  Some things were better left private.
       She took the heavy book and sat back down on the couth, pulling up
her feet and pushing herself into the corner.  She flipped to the index
and indulged a curiosity.  The case with Witt was going nowhere with
logic.
       "Aconite" was at the top of the list. 
       "Despite aconite's beauty," she began to read out loud, "or
deceptively because of it, its curious blue hood-like flowers shroud a
deadly poison.  Greek legend attribute the poisonous quality to Cerberus,
the three head dog that guarded the mouth of Hades.  Its saliva fell on
the harmless plant while it battled with Hercules, changing aconite
forever.
       "Witches during the middle ages found a use for the plant, mixing
it with belladonna and rubbing it on their bodies for flying.  The
combination would have been a good mixture for flying, with aconite
influencing heart action and belladonna's delirium.  But it was a deadly
mixture, as well."
       "Very interesting, Mulder," she spoke out loud.  Even though she
read the passage to herself, she could hear his voice as if he was reading
over her shoulder.  "But why would anyone use it *now* to kill?  Why when
there must be a dozen poisons more effective and less detectable?"  She
turned her head to the door, wishing he'd come through, his head full of
crazy ideas, the way things used to be.
       She struggled to speak, sentimental tears welling up again.  She
dashed them from her eyes, bracing herself against another onslaught.
"Look," she spoke to the empty room, "I can't do it without you, Mulder. 
I'm lost on this one."
       Her head bowed down, her auburn hair falling onto the pages.  She
wiped the mist away, staring at the words.  She ran her finger down the
page. 
       Then it stopped. 
       "Aconite has been called a love poison," she slowly read.  "Legend
tells that women who were fed the herb daily from infancy had the power to
poison men through sexual contact."
       She slammed the book shut and grabbed her cell phone.  Come on,
Witt, answer.  She paced the room with growing agitation.  "It's Scully," 
she blurted out when she heard the other end pick up.  "Witt, I think I
have the answer . . .  No, I can't tell you over the phone.  Pick me up,
we're heading down to New Jersey."  She shook her head at Witt's protest. 
"Agent Mulder should have been working this case from the beginning.  I
think he'll confirm my theory."

       He watched the sun set as he drove to her, the fire of the western
sky bathing the trees in red.  He would condemn her, if he must.  He would
save her, if he could.  He would reach in and pull her from the autumn
fire of the sky and burning leaves and risk damnation.  Her magic was
useless against the real world, betony piled to the ceiling could not keep
the evil out.  They would come and arrest her, the fires of suspicion
building in a terrified community, fanned by her unwillingness to help and
put an end to the creature.  They knew she disliked Phillips.  But enough
to see him dead?  Mulder didn't buy it.  She wasn't completely innocent,
that much he figured, but he knew her.  She wasn't a fool.  She knew what
people thought of her.  Three hundred years ago they'd have tied her to a
stake and set a fire under her.
       She hadn't given anyone a reason not to. 
       Mulder pulled into the driveway, pulling the keys from the ignition
while jumping from his seat, and hit the ground running.  "Penny!" he
pounded on the door, "Let me in!  I have to talk with you.!" 
       The shades were all pulled, curtains drawn, all signs of life gone. 
If she's fled, Mulder thought, she's a bigger fool than I thought.  He
pounded again on the heavy wooden door, calling out her name.  She
couldn't shut him out, she knew him as he knew her.  And he was her last
friend in the world.
       He gave the door another hard slap of his palm, then grabbed the
doorknob in frustration.  It turned, nearly causing him to fall into the
entry as the door pushed open.  He caught his balance after one awkward
step, and pulled his gun instinctively from his holster in the next.  She
may have fled.  She may be dead if someone broke in.  She may have locked
herself in a room, barred against evils not with plants but with a
shotgun.  Whatever awaited, he would be prepared.
       "Penny!" he again called out, hoping to elicit a response from her. 
He slowly walked into the living room, weapon drawn.  "I'm not going to
hurt you!"  Two more steps.  Oh God, his mind raced, why won't she answer? 
"You have to trust me, Penny!"
       A light flicked on in the kitchen.  Mulder jumped and swung the gun
in that direction.
       "I trust you with my life, Fox." 
       Mulder heaved a sigh of relief, but kept his gun drawn.  "Penny,
you scared me out of my mind," he wiped the sweat from his forehead,
cautiously walking through the doorway. 
       She sat at the kitchen table, the familiar cup of tea cradled in
her hands.  He could see the steam rise and tease the curves of her face,
lick her chin and kiss her nose.  She took a linger sip, staring down at
the table all the time.  "They won't have me."
       He reholstered the gun.  "If you're innocent, they won't.  They
can't arrest you on rumors."  He sat down in the chair opposite to her,
trying the catch her glance.  "But I have to give them something. 
Phillips may die from the attack.  Penny, where's the dog?" 
       She turn her eyes up, a smirk turning up the corner of her mouth. 
"He got what he deserved."
       "He may *die*," he emphatically gestured to her.  "He never
deserved that!"
       She caught his hand as it reached out to her, grabbing his wrist
and twisting it.  "Men are fools," she hissed, snapping his wrist with an
extra rotation.
       She was strong, even stronger than he remembered a few days ago. 
He tried to hold back but the wince turned into a howl of pain.  He
crumpled in his chair.
       She eased, released the arm from the wrist, but took possession of
his fingers instead.  She brought them to her lips, slowly kissed them
twice.  "Phillips is a fool," she whispered, her gentle fluttering kisses
turned to licks.  She wrapped her lips around two fingers and sucked them
as she slid her mouth down.  mind spinning.  "Look, Penny, I came to warn
you.  I may not be able to stop them if they come." 
       She released his fingers.  "Let them come."  She pushed herself
from the chair to kneel before him.  Submission was only implied, he knew
he was actually the one bowing.  Even in this position, she held her
dominance.  She set her hands in his lap.  "They will never have me.  They
will never have him."
       He pushed her hands off.  "I won't stop them if you are protecting
that dog.  I won't protect a killer." 
       She spiraled up to him and kissed him hard, teasing and tasting his
anger and frustration.  She was rose and cornflower and sage, bergamot in
the sun, catmint in the shade and wintergreen berries hidden under the
snow.  It flashed through Mulder's mind as he let go of sense and felt her
spirit.  She had become Eden.  How could there be any evils in this
garden? 
       The twitter of his cell phone brought him back to reality.  He
pulled away from her, suddenly irritated.  Damn it, she kept getting him
off the topic.  The topic . . . what was the topic anyway?  He pulled the
phone from his jacket.  "Mulder." 
       "Mulder, I need you back in Washington," a voice blurted out. 
       Her voice shocked him back to reality.  "Scully," he turned from
Penny and headed out of the kitchen into the living room.  He rubbed his
fingers, still wet with her saliva.  "What . . .what . . ." he rubbed his
forehead.  He had to do something ab out this vertigo.  "What's happened?" 
       "You don't sound good, Mulder." 
       "I'm fine, everything's fine," he sat down on the sofa.  "What's
going on?"
       "I've been working on a possible murder case." 
       "I thought that's what I was doing," Mulder rubbed his eyes. 
       "What do you know about aconite?" 
       Penny came and leaned in the doorway.  "Fox," she gently prompted. 
"Who are you talking to?"
       He waved her away.  "Aconite . . . that's a poisonous plant." 
       She walked slowly over to him, her eyes widening, her brow raising. 
"Fox, hang up."
       "Three men have been possibly positioned with aconite.  I'm trying
to figure out a method of delivery. I'm heading down to Hillsborough to
pick you up." 
       Penny slid her hand down Mulder's neck, ending at his shoulder. 
Her grip pressed tight as she closed her hand around.  "Fox," she tersely
interrupted.  "Hang up." 
       Scully could swear she heard a voice in the background.  "Mulder,
who's that?"
       "No one," he grimaced as she bore down on him.  He pulled away and
walked towards the window.  "I can't help you right now, Scully.  I've got
enough problems of my own.  The officer who contacted me." 
       "Yes?" 
       "Well, he's in the hospital in critical condition.  He was attacked
by the mystery animal, the one I'm supposed to debunk.  It's odd you
should mention aconite.  It's one of the poisons in his system, along with
four or five others."
       "You know how it got there?" her voice started to crescendo with
panic and revelation.
       "I think it's something in the animal's bloodstream, something it's
ingesting and passing on.  I can't understand how it's doing it." 
       Penny grabbed the phone from Mulder and snapped it shut.  "What the
hell do you think you're doing?"
       "I was talking to my partner," he grabbed the phone back.  "Thank
you very much for hanging up on her." 
       "Her," Penny shook her head, fury growing in her face like a storm. 
"Her.  *HER* I asked you who your partner was.  I asked you if there was
someone else." 
       "She's my partner in *work*, Penny.  I've known her for years." 
       "What did she want you for?  Why did she want you to leave?"  She
saw the look on his face when he answered the phone.  She had seen that
look a thousand times, but their deep affection was never for her.  It
slipped away before she could hold it, it died with them all. 
       The dizzy feeling was not leaving him this time.  He brought his
hand up to his eyes.  "She asked me about the poison . . ."  He tried to
stand up, but fell heavily to the floor. 

       "Mulder?" Scully called out on the other end.  "Mulder, answer me!" 
Silence answered her.  "Something's wrong," she thrust the phone back in
her jacket.  "We're going to see if we can catch him at the hotel." 
       "Tell me what's happening,"  Witt's face grew anxious, keeping her
focus on the dark road.  She quickly glanced at Scully, knowing her
expression matched hers.  "#I heard you talking to him about that
substance.  He found it in someone else." 
       "That's not why we're going to pick him up." 
       "Then you've told him about the deaths.  You told him about the
poisonings." 
       "I've told Agent Mulder nothing.  But I know his thinking and it's
time he had some input.  He'll most likely confirm my theory." 
       "OK, OK" Witt impatiently urged Scully.  "What's your theory?" 
       "Hold tight to the wheel," Scully warned.  "There is a possibility
that one woman is responsible for poisoning those men."
       Witt nodded understandingly.  "It's a strong possibility.  I've
thought that for a long time.  So, what's the shocker?" 
       Scully set her jaw and stared at the dashboard.  "There is a
possibility she's poisoning them through sexual intercourse."
       "What!" she quickly glanced at Scully, jaw dropped to her lap. 
Scully saw the look.  Priceless.  Probably what Mulder saw in her own face
with every fantastic explanation of his.
       "There is a legend concerning aconite.  If a woman was give daily
does of the plant from infancy onward, she could later poison men through
intercourse."
       "No no no," Witt shook her head.  "Do you know what you're saying?" 
       "From a medical standpoint, it's impossible and if Agent Mulder
came to me with that line of reasoning, I'd argue against it.  "But," she
pointed out, "myths and stories have to start somewhere.  Truth is what
gives birth to them."  She threw up her hands in exasperation.  "The truth
may be that the killer wishes she were poison and would have us chasing
down myths.  Then, maybe . . ." 
       Witt understood.  "Maybe she *is* poison." 
       "It would explain the presence of aconite both in the bloodstream
and around the mouth."
       "Then she could be deadly to encounter," Witt concluded, then
adding, "in any circumstance."
       "Which is why I want Agent Mulder on the case." 


       Penny leaned over him, touched his face tenderly, and smiled
sweetly.  "My mother used to sing to me to put me to sleep."  She drew her
hand away.  Love was useless, attachment pointless.  Everything dies.  She
knew the autumn must come, no matter how sweet the spring, how warm the
summer.  "I'll take you back to the hotel."
       "I don't feel good," he mumbled. 
       "I'll drive you over," she pressed a kiss on his lips.  "I can't
let you lie here." 
       A chill ran through him.  He didn't think she said that. 
       He swore he heard her say, "I can't let you die here." 

(8/8)

       Route 206 remained crowded most of the evening, filled with the
thousand of commutes who's jobs took them onto Route 22 or 287.  She grew
up in a township when traffic was rare, when one could make a left any
time of the day onto any road.  The quiet had slipped from their lives
years ago.  Long live suburbia. 
       Penny turned her eyes quickly to Mulder, half slipped down in the
seat, holding a hand to his head.  He had finally comprehended the monster
- although slowly at first - but still failed to see the whole picture. 
And if he had kept speaking to his partner, he'd finally put two and two
together. 
       He'd hear the truth from Penny, not from some office trollop. 
Penny knew those types; pretty, flighty, full of gushing and compliments
for their superiors.  She hated Scully immediately.  "What did your
partner want?" Penny asked.  She tried to keep her voice casual but the
edge still came through.
       Mulder closed his eyes, the headlights of the cars seeming brighter
than normal.  The light sliced through his skull like a knife, "I don't
remember what she said," he struggled through the haze.  He couldn't even
recall Scully calling him.
       Penny mumbled a dubious affirmative.  "What have you told her about
the dog, Fox?"
       "I told you, Penny.  I haven't spoken with her, I've been busy." 
       "What about me?" she anxiously glanced over to him.  She couldn't
hold the ice back.  It didn't matter anymore. 
       "We don't discuss personal matters."  He rubbed his temples.  "I'll
bet I caught the flu.  I can't seem to shake this headache." 
       She fixed her eyes back on the road.  "I'm glad you didn't mention
me.  I wouldn't want her to get the wrong idea." 
       He moaned quietly, slipping down farther in the seat.  "I have to
call Scully back."
       Penny's glare darkened a shade.  "She can wait.  I can't.  I need
to tell you something."  She managed a sweet smile, which brightened her
voice.  "And you need to rest.  I'll take care of you." 
       Mulder didn't reply.  He shivered. 
       She pulled into the hotel's parking lot, then steered the car
toward the side entrance.  "Come on, Fox," she tapped him on the shoulder. 
"We're here.  Give me the key to the door." 
       "I don't know where I left them." 
       "Well, you have to have the keys on you."  She got out of the car,
opened his side and tried to coax him out.  "Lean on me." 
       He waved her away.  "Let me get my bearings." 
       She yanked on his arm.  "The only way you're getting from here to
that room is with me.  Lean on me." 
       He carefully threw his weight forward into her arms.  She caught
him, pulling him up as she slipped her arm around his waist.  Reality
waved, changing, melting.  He felt Scully wrap around and steady him as he
walked tentatively . . . it had to be her, he trusted no one else.  He
wavered back to Penny, her small, strong hands guiding him.  Oh, why
couldn't she be Scully?
       She dug her hand into his front pocket.  Mulder half leaned on her,
afraid she would be overwhelmed.  She seemed unbothered by his weight,
only concerned with his hotel key to open the side entrance.  But she
would be bothered soon.  He pulled from her and leaned on the building's
side.  "I can enter through the main door." 
       She yanked on his pocket.  "Just give me a second." 
       He felt the cold seep from the wall into his back, the wind
stinging his face, but his hands went numb earlier.  The feeling hadn't
returned.  "I have to call Scully back." 
       She pulled the key free.  "It can wait."  She slipped in the key
and gently opened the heavy glass door.  "Can you walk?" 
       He nodded.  "With a little help."  He squinted, his eyes suddenly
overwhelmed by the brightness of the interior.  He felt her slip her arm
around him again as a whisper, but the whisper kept him standing.  He felt
along the wall as she helped him to the elevator, then slowly walked him
to his room on the second floor.  "Rest here", she gently pushed him up
against the wall.  "I need to figure out this lock.  Hotel locks are
notorious." 
       It opened easily for her, ignoring her assumption. 
       "We're here, Fox." She flipped on the entry light and guided him
into the room.  "Just a few more steps." 
       He moved with her, feeling her sit him down.  He laid back on the
bed, one more wave of dizziness rising up, threatening to pull him under.
"It's not any better."
       Penny sat down next to him, flipped a strand of hair behind her
ear.  "You're going to be fine."  Her hands smoothed over his hair and
eyes.  "Better?"  She ran her hand through his hair rubbing his temples
with both hands, working her way into the nape of his neck. 
       He nodded, closing his eyes, focusing on her hands pressing in
little circles.
       "I'm so glad you came out to Flagtown, Fox," her voice dropped to a
soothing whisper. "When I first found out you worked for the FBI, I was
worried."  She abruptly laughed.  "I was scared for myself.  Silly, I
know."
       "I came to understand the rumors of a crazed dog." 
       "The dog," she continued to crane her torso over him.  "There are
no records of this occurring, no stories, no myths.  Until now."  She laid
a hand on his chest.  "I've wanted to tell you the day I met you.  I knew
you'd believe me.  But," she flicked the top two buttons of his shirt
open, "I was afraid of what you'd say.  I've created a legend, Fox." 
       "You've helped to perpetuate a myth."  The vertigo seemed to be
lifting.  He struggled to sit up. 
       "It's real, Fox," she pulled him up, slipped her arm around his
waist.  "I wanted to tell you.  I *tried* to tell you, I tried to show
you."
       "I know."  His voice sounded hollow.  He wanted to believe her. 
And in his heart, he did.
       "Anger . . ." she slowly started, ". . . is a strange thing.  Anger
creates us because we create it.  The animal that you've been sent to
discredit is anger.  Rage.  *My rage.* My mothers plot was a desperate
one, but her rage had to be placed somewhere.  She taught me her wisdom of
herbs, the real and the fantastic stories, the ones she applied because
she believed.  The house hung with hellebore and betony and angelica.  She
was keeping out the evil, hoping it would never return again. 
       "I practiced the magic in an animal.  I tried every combination of
poisonous plant.  But they all died in my hands," she smiled as she ran
her hand down his neck.  "Six pups . . . I buried them in the shade of the
tree and I kissed my children good night." 
       "You *poisoned* them?" he cringed from her, realization dawning. 
"You tried to create a monster?" 
       "I was birthing my child.  My legacy.  When I am dead with ivy and
hemlock growing on my grave, it will remain walking beneath the sky.  My
rage exists in that monster."
       "But *why*?"  He pulled her wandering hand off his neck.  "Why
would you want to hurt innocent people?"
       "Because they're not all that innocent," she answered him.  "Not
the men, at least.  And I have no control who the dog attacks, just when
it broke through my greenhouse."
       "It was feeding its need," Mulder said in awe, the picture clearly
forming.  "When it ripped and devoured those poisonous plants, it was
doing so out of survival."
       "We all feed a need, literal or figurative.  My mother", she pushed
at her scalp, "birthed a monster out of a man's violence.  She was
determined I never know her pain.  She made me what I am, Fox." 
       The red hair fell from her scalp, slipped off the bed in a sigh. 
She opened both eyes and took the contacts out.
       Realization came far too slowly.  Mulder turned to her, his eyes
opened wide in shock at the sight of her; her eyes grayed, her hair short
and spare . . . and white.  White as the snow, white as the moon, white as
the monster that attacked Officer Phillips.
       She met his shock with her mouth against his, slipping her saliva
into him.
       "Come, Fox," she slid her top off, then pulled at his shirt.  "Let
it go, let it all go, let me take away the pain."  She leaned over and
whispered in his ear, "I can make it all go away." 

       Scully flashed her ID as she past the front desk.  Witt, who
followed behind, repeated the gesture to the receptionist.  "Do you know
if Fox Mulder came into the building?" Scully asked the bewildered man.
       He shook his head.  "Don't know.  Saw a tall guy who looked hung
over.  Some woman was helping his to his room." 
       Witt nearly vaulted over the desk.  "What did she look like?" 
       "I . . . I don't remember," he stammered as Witt stared him down. 
"Short.  Red hair.  Why?  Is she in some sort of trouble?" 
       Witt turned and ran toward the elevator.  "I hope not.  If you
could hand over the spare set of keys to Fox Mulder's room . . ." she
thrust her open hand under his nose.
       He hesitated. 
       She held up her badge for the second time and raised her eyebrow. 

       Scully ran down the hall to him.  He had to be here, he had to be
safe.  Her hands began to shake.  Don't jump to conclusions, Dana.  Just
because the two separate cases they were working on hundreds of miles from
each other had one element in common, didn't mean that Mulder was next in
line to show up dead.
       Damn it, the one absolutely implausible element *was* in both of
their cases.  She had worked on the X-files long enough to know exactly
what that meant.
       She ran faster. 
       Witt kept up her pace.  "Room 203, 205, 207 . . ." 
       "Two thirteen is three doors down."  She ran ahead of Witt,
skidding to a stop.  She knocked.  Then pounded.  "Mulder, are you there? 
Can you hear me?"
       Witt pulled the keys out and tried the lock.  "Damn, it won't
budge," she grumbled.  She turned the key again, swearing as she tried to
push it open.
       "Mulder!"  She slapped the door as hard as she could.  "Mulder,
open the door!"
       "He probably put the chain lock on.  And wedged a chair in front of
the door.  I think your partner's paranoid."  Witt rattled the key in the
lock. "Screw this."  She pulled her weapon out.  Scully followed her cue. 
"Does the FBI pay for damages?" 
       "Sometimes." 
       She brought her weapon up and stood sideways.  "I hope they pay for
the door." 
       "I've done more damage with Agent Mulder."  The bombed federal
building was still a recent memory.  She joined Witt in the stance. 
"Ready." 
       Witt grimaced.  "One . . .two . . . three . . .GO!" 
       The door exploded inward, the chain giving way, the heavy chair
toppling over.  The two women stormed the room, jumping around the fallen
chair.
       Scully couldn't see her fully, just her long white torso shimmering
in the candescent lighting.  In her arms she held Mulder, whose stare had
become glassy.  He stared through her, her hands cradling his head at the
temples.  Scully didn't think he knew where he was.  Or what was
happening.  "Can you hear me, Mulder?" 
       "He hears bells, Persephone.  All he can hear is me."  She brought
his face to hers and kissed full and long.  "Jealousy is an ugly thing. 
But it couldn't destroy Minthe.  Her lover saved her from humiliation." 
       "I want to to move away from him and then to turn slowly.  Hands in
the air." 
       "You don't want to see this," she replied smugly.  "You really
don't want to know.  You can't possibly understand." 
       "Try me," Scully shot back.  "I'm starting to understand a lot." 
       The woman turned, her hair short and white, her eyes grey as the
flat winter sky.  She met the horrified stares of the two woman.  And
smiled.
       "You . . . " Witt gaped. 
       Scully eyed the two and aimed her gun at the freakish creature. 
"Mulder, back away from her."
       "Scully," he slurred, reaching out to Penny, yet his eyes remained
unfocused.
       Witt pushed past Scully, weapon drawn on the creature.  *"DID YOU
DO IT?  DID YOU KILL MY PARTNER?"*
       The woman turned back to Mulder, who continued to slip from her
grasp.  She heaved him up and kissed him one final time, filling him with
evil.  No more cornflower and rose blooming in his head, only hellebore
and nightshade and aconite weaving from her soul as her tongue slipped
past his lips. 
       Witt fired. 
       She arched back in shock, her blood splattering Mulder's face and
neck. She grabbed hold of him to keep from crumpling, digging her nails
into his arms, a last grapple for dominance.
       Witt's gun fired a second time. 
       The force threw her off the bed.  She crashed on her back . . . and
was still. 
       Mulder rose up, horrified.  He clenched at the air in desperation
for her.  His eyes rolled into the back of his head.  "Scully . . . help
me . . ."  He fell backwards, hitting his head on the backboard. 
       Scully threw her cell phone to Witt as she ran to Mulder.  "*Call
an ambulance!*"
       She watched Scully crawl onto the bed.  "I think we got here just
in time, Agent Scully," she flipped open the phone and hit 911.  "Is he
going to make it?"
       "I'm not sure.  His pulse is weakening," she rapidly moved her
hands to find his pulse.  "Mulder, can you hear me?"  She slapped him on
his face.  "Come on, Mulder, hang on.  Stay awake.  We're going to get you
to a hospital."
       No response. 
       She held Mulder's head in her lap.  "Don't leave me, Mulder.  Oh
God . . . don't leave me now."
       Penny groaned.  "He left you long ago." 
       Scully craned her head over the side of the bed.  "She'll need
medical attention.  Inform the paramedics we have a biohazard and use
extreme caution when transporting her."
       Witt reholstered.  "Let her die." 
       "What?" 
       "You heard me.  Let her bleed out the last drop of venom in her. 
*Let . . . her . . . die*."  She knelt down and twisted Penny's head up to
meet hers.  "He wouldn't be fooled.  He knew what you were poisoning those
men.  You couldn't get him in bed, so you strangled him.  Was it worth
it?" 
       "I never killed those men," she managed to say in a horse voice. 
"They killed themselves."
       Witt dropped her head and rose over her.  "No, you tricked them. 
They never deserved to die." 


Prologue

       Mulder spanned his hands over the clear plastic shell, staring in a
reverential silence.  She could be a saint, preserved for eternity,
preserved from the corrupting air.  But he only saw a demon, sealed away
in a modern day Pandora's box.
       Penny never looked up at him from the hypobaric chamber.  Her arm
stretched out, then lay still.
       He hid his face from Scully as she walked over to him.  *Please,
Scully, not now, don't ask me to explain myself.* He could always confide
in her, but not this.  The three day hospital stay left him laying in bed,
regretting whom he chose to trust.
       Her hands went to her hips, feigning disapproval.  "What are you
doing here, Mulder?  I thought you were supposed to stay for observation
three more days"  She was relieved to see him up and about, although she
questioned the sanity of it.
       He made a face at her.  "Scully, if I stayed one more minute,
they'd have taken all my blood for tests."  He winced as he wrapped his
hand around the strapped cotton bandages.  "Bunch of vampires." 
       "It's standard medical procedure." 
       He shook his head.  "I'm just a curiosity to them." 
       "You're the first known victim to survive an attack." 
       "Don't I feel special," he shot back. 
       She gently smiled, hoping to lighten his mood.  "I have more good
news.  Officer Phillips is out of intensive care and is starting to make a
fair recovery."
       "But not Penny," his hand still pressed against the enclosure. 
       "She's lost a lot of blood," Scully twisted her head and studied
her with a cold detachment, "and her pressure been unstable.  Not to
mention her level of toxicity, which poses a danger for any of the
hospital staff.  I'm afraid a reasonable explanation has not been found." 
       Mulder voice dropped to a whisper.  "She won't look at me, Scully. 
She won't talk to me."
       Scully continued to look down on Penny Lewis, clothed only in a
hospital gown, her white skin now milky transparent.  The grey eyes stared
up at the ceiling, never blinking.  "She doesn't have to, Mulder.  She's
already confessed to fifteen deaths.  She isn't looking for a plea
bargain."  Scully shrugged.  "But I don't know a court that would convict
her.  She's clearly insane." 
       He shook his head in bewilderment.  "Why would this happen,
Scully?"
       "I couldn't find any recent medical records on her.  Which is
unusual by itself.  No dental, hospital, gynecological.  Nothing except
birth records for a Pennyroyal Lewis."
       "There's got to be a surprise in here somewhere." 
       "I went back to the mother.  *Ms*. Diane Lewis was hospitalized
while carrying Penny for an accidental poisoning."  Scully opened her eyes
wide.  "*Pennyroyal.*" 
       Mulder shook his head.  "I don't get it." 
       "Pennyroyal has been used to induce abortion, but only at great
risk to the woman.  It's poisonous.  Ms. Lewis, who was rushed to the
hospital, *unmarried* . . ."
       "Might have tried to abort with the herb.  But why?" he asked. 
       And then Mulder remembered.  "She said her mother created her out
of a man's rage."
       "I couldn't find any records of an attack, but that didn't mean she
wasn't raped.  Many women never come forward." 
       His hands stretched again across the hard plastic confinement,
looking down on her, fading away.  "So her mother vowed her daughter would
never be a victim of rape."  He dropped his forehead to Penny's hand,
pressed against the confinement, reaching up to him.  "Anger is a strange
thing," he mumbled, mimicking the words of Penny.  "Anger created her. 
Her mother must have given her small amounts of aconite from infancy on."
       "You know of the story?" 
       "You sound surprised, Scully," he managed a weak smile.  "You would
have dismissed me if I suggested that the poisonings . . ."
       "I know, Mulder." 
       "She drank a tea . . ." he thought back to the times in her
kitchen, " . . .and I knew she grew those herbs.  Who would have imagined
she was loading a weapon?  Or nursing a dog into a monster?" 
       "How could you have known, Mulder?" 
       "You know me , Scully.  I've always prided myself on seeing through
deception."  Pause. "What have the doctors said about her condition?" 
       "The levels of aconite have not gone down.  But there seems to be
rapid muscular disintegration.  If it keeps up, she won't even make it to
trial."  Scully reached out and laid her hand over Mulder's.  "I've
recommended aconite to be administered to slow down the disintegration. 
One way or the other, she'll never leave the hospital.  Or this chamber. 
She's made her own prison."
       "She tried to protect herself from evil, weaving herbs into her
existence.  But she was those plants, she was the evil.  She hung them in
her house, hellebore and nightshade . . . "
       "Belladonna," Scully murmured, reaching out for the hand that still
pressed on the casing.  She covered it with hers.  "Changing from plant
into a beautiful woman.  Beautiful to gaze apon . . ." 
       "But deadly."  He finally raised his hand off the dome and turned
to Scully.  "Have you ever believed in myth, that there might be truth in
these ancient stories?"
       She sighed.  "I believe in the depths of love and hate.  With these
two polar opposites, anything is possible."  Scully gestured to the pale,
weakened woman.  "Look at the power of hate." 
       "Belladonna."  He paused.  "What in the world are we going to tell
Kersh when we get back to Washington?"
       "The truth," she folded her arms, determined.  "That we found the
killer and the source of the rumors."
       "But I haven't found the dog.  And *that* isn't just a harmless
rumor."  Mulder slapped the casing.  "Lewis!" he yelled. 
       She did not turn her head. 
       He pounded again.  "Lewis, where's the dog?" 
       Her stare was frozen on the ceiling.  She stirred, pressed a
thinning arm against her confinement.  "You will never find him," she
hoarsely whispered.  The bell were gone, the wonderful ringing laughter
Mulder heard on that beautiful autumn day, silenced.  "He will not be
caught.  He is myth.  People will see him from time to time but he can't
harm anyone anymore.  He is lost without me.  I told you, Fox.  He will
live when I am dead." 


       The night stirred with the cold wind.  He caught her as she
stumbled down the sloping earth, spitting up dust and gravel as she slid.
"Be careful, Kevin!"
       "Yea, yea," he brushed off her pant with a half hearted smack. 
       She cried out a complain and walked away from him.  "You're
completely insensitive.  If you weren't a senior . . ." 
       "I know," he grinned.  "You wouldn't be seen with me."  He ran to
catch up with her, then trotted to a walk. at her side.  "How else are you
getting to the prom of the millennium?"
       "That's next spring.  You don't think I could get invited by some
other guy?"
       "You are a cute sophomore.  But even you can't work that fast. 
People have had this planned for a year."  He grabbed her hand.  "You're
stuck with me," giving it a playful shake. 
       She smiled at him, watching the wind stir his hair and blow leaves
across their shoes.  Her smile faded as soon at it appeared, a chill ran
through her.  She pulled her jacket tightly around her.  "Do you think
we'll see it?"
       "I hope so.  I mean, we *have*to.  The night is just right."  He
pointed to the east, the full moon two hours risen.  "It always comes out
at night.  And it was exactly a year ago . . ." 
       "Have you been there?" she whispered, afraid.  "The Lewis house? 
Have you been there since . . ."  Her voice dropped, but her eyes conveyed
everything.
       "I thought someone would have bought it by now.  But the greenhouse
has been destroyed by the dog.  And the entire house has been overgrown by
ivy.  I wouldn't buy it.  That place gives me the creeps.  They say she
haunts it.  But I doubt that." 
       A high pitch whine interrupted him.  He dropped to the ground and
pulled her down with him.  It sounded again, repeating over and over,
carried on the wind. 
       He crept slowly down the bank with her. 
       The howl sounded again, a wail of the deepest pain.  Keven had
heard that sound before, riding his bike at night down River Road and it
never failed to give him the chills.  But now a second voice chimed in,
one that he never heard accompany the first.  Laughter, reminiscent of
churchbells, joined in the dog's cries. "What the hell . . ." he struggled
to make sense out of the darkness.
       She clasped her hand to her mouth.  "Oh my God . . ." 
       There was no mistaking the familiar trestle frame, lit only by an
ascending moon.  He knew it would be here, tonight of all nights.  One
solitary shape casting its shadow on the railroad trestle.
       He did not expect the second. 
       The dog balanced the metal like a cat, the wind blowing through
it's long white mane.  It stretched its back under the hand of the other
figure.  The light caught her frame, thin and pale, her head as bare as
the dog's flanks.
       She wrapped her arms around the creature.  And laughed. 
       "Now, do you believe me? he whispered." 
       She stared at it, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling. 
"You never mentioned her."
       He gaped, swallowing hard to hide his fear.  "I've never seen
*that* before."
       "It's her.  The woman who lived in the house." 
       Her head threw back.  She laughed again, high and strange, bells
ringing through the wind.  She sang to the moon. 
       He wiped his brow.  "God, I hope not."  He turned from the sight
and took his girlfriend's hand.  "Come on, I'm getting the creeps." 

       They left the visions behind, walking and running from the wails. 
It may have been only the wind, but both of them knew better.  "The guys
at school are not going to believe this," Kevin called back as he pulled
her down River Road and back to reality.
       "It's just like Wuthering Hights."  She held his hand, stumbling
over the rutted road.  The moon cast eerie shadows in the trees, throwing
long fingered images into their path.  "When Catherine died but continue
to cry for Heathcliff over the moores.  You read that in tenth grade,
right?"
       "I slept through Sophomore English.  Especially Wuthering Hights." 
He took a final look over his shoulder.
        Ghosts.  Maybe on the english moors. 
       Things like this *never* happened in suburbia. 


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
       "I'm aware what the rules are but you know that I will run, you
know that I will follow you over silbury hill through the solar fields,
you know that I will follow you. 
       "These tears I've cried, I've cried a thousand oceans, and it would
seem I'm floating in the darkness, well I can't believe that I would keep
you from flying and I would cry a thousand more if that what it takes to
sail you home, sail you home, sail you home."

Tori Amos