From: Entilzha <entil2001@yahoo.com>
Date: 13 Dec 2001 17:13:30 -0800
Subject: Fic: From That Eternal Silence - Prologue (1/1)
Source: atxc

Title: From That Eternal Silence - Chapter Eight (1/3)

Author: Entil'zha

E-mail:  entil2001@yahoo.com

Ratings: PG-13 (violence, references to sexual situations,
minor language)

Category: Casefile w/loads of angst

Warnings/Spoilers: Very heavy S8 spoilers, with general
references to the
mythology in previous seasons

Archive: Anyone at IWTB, XFMU.  Anyone else can have it, too, but
let me know
so I can look at your site!

Summary: In suburban New Jersey, a teenage girl seems to
commit suicide, but a murder suspect is named.  Doggett
is called in under strange circumstances, and in the course
of the investigation, he must face his own inner demons.
Agent Reyes is also heavily involved with the case.

Disclaimer: What's theirs is theirs, what's mine is mine.
'Nuff said.

Notes:  This story takes place between "Alone" and "Essence".
Also, for those who are familiar with MeridyM's work, this
story takes place a couple weeks after "Intuition" and shortly
before "Empathy".  It is assumed that S8 covers
May-December 2000.


PROLOGUE

November 24, 2000

7:54 PM

Cranford, NJ

She ran up the stairs without a word, ignoring the hum of 
muted voices echoing from the dining room.  If she heard the 
sound of the front door slapping against the thin wall of the 
front hallway, she ignored that as well.  All that mattered 
was that she was late, and after waiting months for Eric to 
ask her out, she was damned if she was going to screw it up 
even worse than she already had.

She was already pulling the tight crop top over her head 
when she heard the inevitable call of her mother's annoyed 
voice from the bottom of the stairs.  "Simone!"

"I'm running late, Mom!" she called out with a huff.  "I 
told Eric I'd meet him at the park by eight!"

Simone swore she could feel the disapproval in the air, even 
from a distance.  "What kind of boy makes a date on Thanksgiving, 
Simone?  For God's sake, the entire family is here!  Isn't it 
bad enough that you were working all day?"

Simone rolled her eyes, grabbing her heels as she ran into 
the bathroom, slapping the switch for the lights over the 
mirror.  "I told you, I tried to get the day off, but you 
know Tad!  He's worked at that place for fifteen years, and 
he's never let the teens off on the holidays."

"Well, he better not make you work Christmas," her mother 
mumbled.  Not for the first time, Simone wondered if her 
parents had designed the house specifically to allow her 
mother's voice to carry anywhere.  "So who's this boy?"

Simone ran her fingers through her long brown hair, smirking 
at her reflection in the mirror.  Plugging in the curling 
iron, she turned towards the doorway.  "Eric Decampo, Mom!  
You know, quarterback, football team, nice butt?  Said so 
yourself last Friday."

"Him?"  Simone could tell by the tone of her mother's voice 
what was coming next.  "Now I remember..."

"Mother!"

Her mother's laughter joined her own.  "Well, if you insist 
on going out tonight, can you at least get home earlier 
than midnight?  Your cousin's flying in early tomorrow 
morning, and you know he's going to want to see you at 
the airport."

Simone sighed, hurriedly trying to do something with her 
hair.  "Damn!  I forgot all about that!  If you let me take 
the car, I'll get gas on the way home."

And there came the waves of disapproval again, just as she 
expected!  "Simone, you know what happened the last time..."

"It's just to the park," Simone rebutted.  "Five blocks away!"

"I guess it's all right.  I'll find some way to explain it to 
your father.  Good thing he's just about out for the night, 
thanks to eating all that turkey.  Speaking of which, are 
you eating before you go?"

"Not wearing this, I'm not," she muttered, running her hand 
over her slim stomach.  Then louder, "I'm already late, Mom!  
Maybe when I get back.  Save some stuffing!"

"All right...but at least say hello to the family before 
you leave!"

Simone rolled her eyes again, and then looked at herself in 
the mirror again.  The hair was a bit more curly now, the 
way she liked it.  Not perfect, but it would do.  She picked 
up a pad and swabbed her forehead lightly, looking closely 
at her eyes in the process.  Still the same drab brown, 
but at least the usual circles underneath were absent for 
the moment.

Looking down, she rummaged through the various shades of 
lipstick, finally selecting a shade of red that complemented 
the striking crimson of her top.  Applying it liberally, 
she looked herself over in the mirror, sucking in her stomach 
and pushing out her chest.

"Not bad," she said with a self-indulgent grin, and then 
rummaged through another bin for the perfect pair of earrings.

One hand holding her left ear, she slid the razor blade across 
her cheek, gouging a harsh line from her forehead down to her 
neck.  With the same absent, calm motion, she repeated the act 
on the other side of her face, and then looked herself over 
once again with satisfaction.  Dark scarlet streaks rushed down 
her neck, pooling at the edge of her top before coursing down 
under the fabric.

Looking herself over, the same grin wide on her face, she 
ripped the blade deeply into her left wrist, slicing hard 
towards her elbow in a deliberate path along the blue of her 
vein, clearly marked under her pale skin.  Again, the process 
was repeated with her right arm, more slowly this time as 
weakness swept over her, and then the blade slipped from her 
fingers, clattering to the tile floor.

Slumping slightly against the counter, her blood spilling 
onto the formica surface, she stared at her whitening face 
with a look of satisfaction.  Slowly, haltingly bringing her 
right hand up to the mirror, she began tracing out letters 
over her reflection.  By the time she was done, her legs 
lost their strength, and she fell to the floor.

Even as her consciousness slipped away, the smile never 
left her lips.

***

CHAPTER ONE

November 27, 2000

Washington, D.C.

Agent John Doggett stood in the doorway to the basement 
office, his eyes lingering on the desks, the filing cabinets, 
the notes still plastered on the walls.  There was a hint of 
amusement on his lips as his gaze fell on the "I Want to 
Believe" poster hanging in the usual corner, and he considered 
whether or not he should take it down.  The thought fled 
instantly, though, as he considered that it would be a kind 
of dishonor to those who had occupied the office before him.

The incident with Agent Harrison had resolved itself during 
a somewhat convenient time of year.  The long holiday weekend 
had given him the opportunity to consider the position that 
he had placed himself in.  There was no doubt that he was 
completely responsible for his present lack of career 
opportunities; Mulder might have gotten himself booted 
out of the Bureau, but Doggett had deliberately defied 
Deputy Director Kersh more than once, knowing the consequences.

Only he had never truly considered the possibility that 
Agent Scully would not be around to make the decision a 
little more bearable.

He had been aware of the short-term needs of his former 
partner, given the fact that her pregnancy was now winding 
down.  But the long-term plans had always been in question, 
and for whatever reason, he had assumed that she would be 
coming back.  It had not even occurred to him that she might 
be leaving for good, not until the moment her eyes 
met his before she walked out on leave.

And so now he was alone, the only agent remaining on the 
X-Files.

Letting out the deep breath he was not even aware of taking, 
he slipped his coat over the nearest hook and walked to his 
desk, noticing the file sitting on his chair, demanding his 
attention.  What would this case bring?  More little green 
men?  Ghosts or goblins this time?  Or even better, a 
mysterious discovery of killer turkeys, set on revenge?

Scanning the first page, a frown creased his lips.  He 
flipped through the rest of the pages, his eyes lingering 
on the few color photographs clipped to the back, and then 
checked the front of the file.  Sure enough, there was the 
usual file designation, with the brand new number stamped 
prominently on the front.  Doggett reviewed the file again, 
in more detail this time, and then found himself staring at 
the empty desk across the room.

How was he going to run this office on his own, if he couldn't 
even figure out why his first case was an X-File?

***

"I'm not sure I understand the question, Agent Doggett."  
Assistant Director Walter Skinner glanced at the contents 
of the offered file.  "Seems straightforward."

"Yeah, it does," Doggett replied.  "That's the problem.  
Why is this an X-File?"

He took the file back from Skinner, opening it to the 
first page.  "Victim's name is Simone Benoit, age seventeen.  
5'10", 130 pounds.  Found in her parent's home, upstairs 
bathroom, shortly after 8 PM, Thanksgiving Day.  Razor wounds 
on the sides of her face and along the insides of each forearm.  
Cause of death, loss of blood."  He looked up from the file.  
"What's the issue?"

"The initial ruling on the scene was a suicide, but that 
was quickly challenged by the mother," Skinner answered.  
"Local law enforcement picked up a suspect within an hour, 
not far from the home...Thomas Gabriel McShane, age twenty-
eight.  Apparently he has a bit of a history in the area for 
annoying the local law enforcement."

"Pretty fast to call out a suspect," Doggett agreed.  
"How did they ID this guy?"

"Apparently the victim was getting ready for a date with 
another local boy, Eric Decampo, age seventeen.  Decampo 
found McShane waiting outside the victim's house, loaded 
with all kinds of wonderful stuff...knives, mostly.  Some 
looked ceremonial, according to the report.  Blood was 
found on one of the more interesting knives.  Blood type 
was the same as the victim, but apparently Decampo and 
McShane had a bit of a scuffle, and Decampo has the same 
blood type.  They're running DNA tests through their own 
channels, to make sure the blood was hers."

Doggett shook his head.  "I still don't see what this has 
to do with the X-Files, or the Bureau for that matter.  
The parents of the victim called in the local police, they 
have a suspect...the details might be a little fuzzy, but 
nothing that they shouldn't be able to handle.  Why would 
they call us in?"

"They didn't," Skinner said seriously.  "McShane did, with 
his one telephone call.  He notified the local office that 
there were possible irregularities with the case, and that 
someone should investigate with experience dealing with 
unusual circumstances."

Doggett raised an eyebrow.  "And he didn't clarify?"

"Only that they should pay attention to the photographic 
evidence.  They almost ignored the call, figuring that 
McShane was just a crank, but after checking the file, they 
thought maybe Agent Mulder should look it over, just in case.  
I don't think they bothered to check if he was still in the 
Bureau."

"Why should they?  Agent Mulder was only missing for months, 
was dead and buried, came back to life...why would anyone be 
interested in what he was up to lately?"  Doggett flashed 
Skinner a knowing smile.  "So are we supposed to think aliens 
killed this girl?"

"Not aliens, but maybe something just as odd.  Take a look at 
the photographs again."

Doggett nodded as he flipped to the back of the file.  The 
first picture was a wide angle shot, taken from the bathroom 
doorway.  The victim was lying on her back, where her mother 
had found her, staring into space.  Her lips were still 
twisted into a contented smile, as if the girl had been 
staring at someone she was dearly devoted to.  Blood 
streaked from the countertop in the upper right hand corner 
of the picture, down the cabinets, and pooled on the floor 
around the body.

The second picture was a shot of the blood-stained mirror, 
where someone had used the victim's blood to smear letters 
on the reflective surface.  Doggett had to look closely at 
the writing, but the words "Human Bacon" were clearly visible 
among the streaks.  The writing began very clearly, and then 
became more erratic by the end of the second word.

The final pictures were close shots of the victim's wounds.  
Doggett almost dismissed them, until he caught something in 
one of the shots of the facial wounds.  He flipped to the 
first page, and then checked the coroner's report.

"Did the victim wear contact lenses?"  Doggett asked, looking 
up at Skinner.

"No," Skinner confirmed.  "Every picture prior to the victim's 
death, every record, confirms that her eyes were brown."  Skinner 
pointed to the file.  "Both the pictures taken after death, 
and the coroner's report, state that the victim's eye color 
was a very vibrant blue."

"So, what, did her eyes suddenly turn blue at the time of 
death?"  Doggett asked with a smirk.  "What did the local 
P.D. have to say?"

"They say it doesn't means anything," Skinner replied.  
"An effect of the flash from the photography, and a mistake 
by the coroner."

"The flash wouldn't effect the color of the iris that much," 
Doggett countered.  "And I've seen coroners get some of the 
more bizarre details wrong, but never something as simple 
as eye color."  Doggett tapped the picture of the writing 
in blood.  "Did they say what this was supposed to mean?"

"They said it was probably some kind of cult reference, 
something meaningful to the suspect.  That area of the country 
is notorious for cult activity, but not usually in that exact 
part of the state.  This is unusual.  Cranford's a town with 
a very high social standing.  Lots of families living a very 
comfortable life."

"You don't say," Doggett said.  He tapped the picture again.  
"This almost sounds like a reference of intent.  Seeing the 
victim as meat, not as another person.  So why the reference 
to 'human'?  Seems at odds."

Skinner nodded.  "There was enough here that Kersh thought 
it might be a good idea to take a look.  He said that even 
if there was something unusual about this case, this should 
be something simple for you to get started with.  'Starting 
off on the right foot'...those were his exact words."

Doggett scowled.  "Something tells me this may not be the 
simple investigation that I thought it might be."  He thought 
for a moment, and then shook his head.  "I don't even know 
where to begin, other than going up there myself and talking 
to the suspect.  I guess I should expect a little resistance 
from the local law enforcement?"

Skinner sighed.  "Sounds like it."  He gave Doggett a concerned 
look.  "John, I'm not questioning your abilities, but did you 
want me to get involved?"

"I can't say I miss the point of your question," Doggett said, 
standing.  "But I think it might reflect badly on both of us 
if you were to get involved.  Kersh is already looking over 
your shoulder for an excuse to get you out of that chair.  
Besides, if this turns out to be cult-related, then I think 
I have someone else in mind to help out."

"Agent Reyes?"  Skinner sighed.  "She has the right background, 
but I think it is going to be hard to convince Kersh to assign 
her to this case without some kind of definitive proof that 
some cult or ritualistic overtones were involved."

"So I'll check it out first, and call her later if I need 
to."  Doggett said, looking at his watch.  "If I can requisition 
a vehicle, I should be there in a few hours."

"I'll tell the local office to hand over all information they 
might have on hand when you arrive," Skinner added, also 
standing.  As Doggett turned towards the door, Skinner placed 
a hand on his arm, and spoke softly, as if fearing they might 
be overheard.

"Be careful, Agent Doggett.  You know they're not going to 
give you much room to maneuver."  His eyes glanced quickly 
upward.

Doggett nodded slowly, acknowledging the warning, and then 
left Skinner's office without another word.

***

Cranford, NJ

Doggett stood in front of the Cranford Police Department, 
looking down the road to get a sense of the area.  The 
municipal buildings were all close to the center of town, 
with the fire and police departments across the street from 
one another.  A small river passed behind the police station, 
cutting across the town towards the south.  In general, the 
town was divided by the river, with a number of small parks 
dotting the length of the river.

There was a flutter of motion above his head, and when he 
looked up, he saw a large raven sitting on the roof of the 
police department, staring at him.  The raven hopped a few 
feet closer, its eyes peering at him curiously, and then it 
called out, taking to the air.  Several other ravens joined 
the first from a nearby tree.  Doggett regarded their motion 
for a moment, and then turned his attention back to the 
business at hand.

Stepping into the doorway, he saw a large man in uniform 
standing in the lobby.  He noticed the man's name from the 
identification pinned to his uniform, and he smiled inwardly.  
Apparently the local office had done a damn good job of 
advertising his impending arrival.

"Agent John Doggett?" the officer said, his expression one 
of barely restrained hostility.  "I'm Officer Davis.  I've been 
asked to assist you in your investigation of the department."

"I'd be glad for whatever help you can give me, Officer 
Davis, but that's not the reason I'm here."  He looked around 
the lobby.  "I was told I would be able to speak with Sergeant 
Charles Fell."

"He's busy," Davis replied curtly.  "I've been assigned to 
deal with you."

"Well, I've been assigned to check on some details of the 
Benoit murder, Officer Davis."  Doggett took a step towards 
the officer, not threatening, but establishing clear authority.  
"The sooner I get to ask my questions, and the sooner I get 
answers to those questions, the sooner I'm done.  It's that 
simple, Officer Davis.  Any reason why that might be a problem 
for you?"

Officer Davis hesitated for a moment, and then shook his head, 
looking away from Doggett's intense gaze.  "No problem.  What 
do you want to start with?"

Doggett smiled, resisting the urge to push the officer harder.  
"Why don't we start with the suspect, and see where we can go 
from there."

***

Thomas Gabriel McShane sat in the chair across from Doggett 
with an expression of slight amusement.  Doggett was a bit 
surprised to find that the suspect was in such good spirits, 
considering that he had been locked up for nearly five days 
under less than friendly conditions.  There were a few choice 
bruises on the man's face, and Doggett suspected that there 
were a few other wounds equally fresh under the man's clothing.

McShane was average in nearly every respect.  The only thing 
striking about the man were his eyes.  They were an odd shade 
of blue, more of a combination of blue and a deep, expressive 
green, and when they focused on a person, it felt as though 
they were reaching directly into a person's mind and soul.  
It had taken Doggett more than a few moments of watching McShane 
using the hidden camera to get used to the feeling.

"You can see why this guy's trouble," Davis had muttered, 
pointing to the image.  "Some kind of freak.  Loves to mess 
with your head.  Looks at you like he can tell what you're 
thinking."

"I was told that you've dealt with him before, over the years," 
Doggett had said, turning to the officer.  "What kind of 
trouble?"

Davis had shrugged.  "Came into town about ten years ago, a 
little less.  There were some teens that were involved in some 
kind of satanic ritual bullshit, you know, grabbing people's 
pets and sacrificing them in the woods, stuff like that.  
One girl almost got killed, he was involved."  Davis had 
shaken his head.  "Never could pin anything on him.  Since 
then, every time something weird happens around here, 
especially in the woods?  He's there."  He had gestured at 
McShane's image.  "This is the first time we've been this 
close to making something stick.  Who knows?  Maybe you'll 
do some good around here, if you get him to admit to killing 
that girl."


Doggett had chosen to ignore the tone of the last statement, 
and had entered the room armed with more questions than he 
might otherwise have considered.  He still found the man's 
eyes to be unnerving.

"My name is Agent John Doggett, Mr. McShane." he said, 
looking McShane directly in the eye, forcing himself not 
to get distracted.  "I'm here to listen to whatever it is 
you wanted to say, regarding the investigation into the 
murder of Simone Benoit."

"Thank you for coming.  And call me Thomas." McShane said, 
his voice proving to be as distracting as his eyes.  There 
was almost a musical quality to the way he shaped his words, 
as if there was something more he might communicate or suggest.  
Doggett considered how easily such a voice could be used to 
persuade or control.

"You said something about possible irregularities?" Doggett 
prompted.

McShane nodded, gesturing slightly at his own face.  "I would 
think that there are already some obvious irregularities."

"Beyond that," Doggett acknowledged.

"If you've seen the pictures from the investigation, then 
you know that something odd happened at the moment of Simone's 
death.  A physical change, a kind of transformation.  Have you 
ever seen that before, Agent Doggett?"

Doggett cleared his throat, and shook his head.  "No, I 
can't say I have.  But that's not something that I needed 
you to tell me."

"No, it's not," McShane admitted.  "But it's all connected.  
The message, the color of her eyes, the smile on her face.  
How many times have you seen someone murdered in that fashion, 
without even the slightest indication of pain or discomfort?  
And then consider how many times you've seen them look contented, 
even pleased.  Would someone smile if they were being murdered?"

"Are you telling me that she committed suicide, Thomas?"  
Doggett asked.  He had the feeling that there was already 
something making itself apparent, some unknown factor showing 
itself through its very absence.

"Simone Benoit was not a suicide," McShane said with a sigh.  
"There was no suffering in her life, beyond the normal stress 
of trying to date the star of the football team.  No, Agent 
Doggett, I'm afraid that it is not so simple as that."

"Then explain it to me," Doggett pressed.  "If she didn't 
kill herself, and she wasn't murdered, then why is she 
sitting in the morgue right now?"

McShane shook his head, gazing into Doggett's eyes as if 
taking his measure.  "If I were to simply tell you, it would 
do no good.  I can see that as readily as you can see that I 
am not the cause of that girl's death."

As soon as McShane's words crashed over him, he knew that 
it was true.  McShane had not been responsible.  But he did 
know who was responsible, and that meant that there was much 
more to this case than met the eye.

"So why am I here, Thomas, if you have no intention of 
telling me anything?  You can't just claim that you're 
innocent and expect that to be the end of it.  You have to 
give me something to work with."

McShane seemed to consider Doggett's words, and then nodded.  
"Clark.  New Jersey.  May 1982.  Look for the connections."  
He glanced in the direction of the hidden camera.  "Afterward, 
we'll talk.  If they let us."

Doggett did his best not to react to the fact that McShane 
knew the exact location of the hidden camera, but it rattled 
him nonetheless.  Speaking with McShane, just being in the 
same room with him, unsettled him in a fundamental way.  
It was not something that he was able to easily describe.  
It was almost as if something were looking and speaking with 
him through McShane.  Or was it the opposite?

Doggett nodded his agreement, and then quietly left the room.  
Officer Davis met him at the door, and Doggett took him by 
the arm roughly.  He knew that it would make things more 
difficult in the long run, but he wanted to make himself 
very clear.

"Between now and the time I come back, Officer Davis, I 
suggest you make sure there are no more 'irregularities'.  
Understood?"

Hatred blazed behind his eyes, but Davis nodded.


***

CHAPTER TWO

November 28, 2000

Clark, NJ

Doggett woke early the next morning, grabbing a copy of 
the Newark Star-Ledger from the lobby of his hotel on the 
way from the nearest coffee machine.  A call to the local 
library had confirmed that there was an extensive microfiche 
database of the paper, but the building would not be open 
for some time.  As far as Doggett was concerned, this was 
simply a chance to review what little he did know, and get 
a feel for the locale.

The region was the typical picture of suburbia, a seemingly 
endless sea of houses and strip malls packed between the 
labyrinth of parkway and turnpike.  There was a sense that 
one might never know the town they were visiting without 
the aid of the constant signs.  It was all the same, as 
though some infection had spread over the land, recreating 
the world in its bland and stifling image.

Certainly, there were differences lying underneath.  One 
could see the strata of culture and affluence plainly in 
the widely variant headlines devoted to each town in the 
newspaper.  Areas closer to New York City comprised the 
bulk of the violations of the street crime variety, being 
the least wealthy regions.  The story changed in a slow 
but steady march to the west, until one began to read more 
about insurance claims and real estate transactions.

This part of the state, Doggett recalled from the case file, 
had the odd distinction of a reputation for ritualistic and 
cult-related crime, mixed with a liberal part in the drug 
trade corridor running up the East Coast.  An article deep 
within the State section of the paper revealed ongoing 
problems related to racial profiling and random drug searches 
on state highways.

It was the occurrence of cult-related activity that marked 
this particular region as out of the ordinary.  Most of the 
widely published reports pointed to Warren County as the 
main hotbed of ritualistic crime, but judging by the 
information in the FBI database, this one section of 
Union County stuck out like a sore thumb.  And that did 
not fit the expected pattern, which would have roughly 
placed that type of crime in the more remote and less-
populated areas.

It was hard to think that anything so extensive could hide 
in a place with so much constant exposure.  Not for the 
first time, Doggett wondered if Monica might have some 
insights, but he placed that notion in the back of his head.  
There was very little hard evidence related to the case, 
after all, and until there was something specific to 
investigate, there was little justification for placing 
that phone call.

The shrill ring of his cell phone pulled him from his 
reverie.

"Doggett," he said calmly, noting from the information 
flashing on the tiny screen that the cell was from 
Skinner.

"I got your message from last night," Skinner said with an 
extended sigh.  "I was hoping that the information regarding 
the local law enforcement would turn out to be the usual 
compliant from a guilty suspect, but I guess we can't have 
everything."

"I hear you," Doggett replied with a smile.  "But between 
that the business with McShane, I get the feeling that there 
is something more to their lack of people skills."

"Anything specific?" Skinner asked.

"Nothing I can put my finger on," Doggett admitted.  "I 
don't know.  It might just be me.  McShane is a character, 
that's for sure.  I can easily see him involved with some 
kind of cult.  He's got the personality for it.  I'm going 
to hit the library first thing this morning and check his 
information out.  Not much more I can do at this point."

"Let me know what you find," Skinner said, and Doggett could 
tell that there was something more to it than curiosity, just 
by the sound of Skinner's voice.

"Inquiring minds want to know?" Doggett said evenly.

"Something like that," Skinner confirmed.  "Remember what 
we discussed in our meeting yesterday.  It's a good idea to 
try and keep this as clean as possible."

Skinner left it at that, and as soon as the connection was 
cut, Doggett checked his watch.  He had time for a quick bite 
to eat before the library opened.  Pulling out the sports 
section from the paper, and sighing at its apparent lack of 
coverage, he left his hotel room and started his day.

***

"This collection is the Ledger, May 1982," the librarian 
noted helpfully.  "And I thought you might also want to see 
something from the early June 1982 collection."

"Thanks," Doggett said, noting that the boxes were clearly 
marked, but unable to resist the librarian's dated charm.  
What was it about old ladies with purple hair and small-town 
libraries?

"Just let me know when you're finished, dear, or if you need 
anything else."  The old woman nodded politely, and then closed 
the door to the darkened room behind her.

Moments later, Doggett was fighting the usual sense of motion 
sickness that accompanied the rapid flash of page after page 
of black against bright, almost blinding white.  Without a 
sense of when the events McShane mentioned might have occurred, 
there was little more that Doggett could do, other than scan 
everything from the beginning of the month for something that 
might connect to the current situation.

He almost missed the first mention of something peculiar.  
Scanning back a couple pages, he read the headline again, to 
be sure that he had read it right.  A familiar sense of dread 
crept up his spine, and he forced himself not to fall into 
the spiral of deafening memory.

CHILD MISSING FROM CLARK HOUSING DEVELOPMENT, AGE 9

He scanned the content of the article, looking for any 
information that might be relevant.  On May 3, 1982, a young 
boy had been reported missing by a middle-income family in 
a planned community development called Willow Farm Estates, 
close to the Clark-Cranford border.  Beyond that, there was 
very little information.  Scanning ahead, he found the 
inevitable headline the very next day.

MISSING CHILD, AGE 9, FOUND MURDERED NEAR HOME

Doggett read the description of the scene with a dry throat.  
The child had been found in a ditch near a sewer connection 
for rainwater runoff, behind the building that the parents 
had resided.  The body had been partially mutilated, a cross 
and a crown cut deeply into the chest, the face largely removed 
with the exception of the area surrounding the eyes.  The eyes 
were left perfectly intact.  On a hunch, he flipped back to 
the May 3rd article, scanning the description of the boy, 
quickly noting that the boy had blue eyes.  But would that 
have made a difference?

After taking a few notes, he resumed his search through 
the archives.  It was apparent from the comment by the librarian 
that there had been more to the matter than the recovery of 
the child's body.  Soon enough, another headline followed, 
marked May 10, 1982:

SECOND MURDERED CHILD RECOVERED IN WILLOW FARM ESTATES

The details of the second incident were plainly similar to 
the first, with the most obvious distinction being the more 
immediate recovery of the body.  Based on the circumstances 
discovered during the previous incident, the local police 
had found the body within an hour of the discovery that the 
young girl was missing from her bed.  Reading the article 
carefully, Doggett noted that the mutilation was the same, as 
was the age, but this time, there was an observation regarding 
the color of the girl's eyes.  They were noted to have apparently 
changed from brown to blue, seemingly overnight.

Doggett knew instantly that this was part of what McShane 
had wanted him to discover, but it soon became obvious that 
it was only the beginning.  Immediately after the second child 
had been murdered, the other children in the area were more 
closely monitored.  But within days, a third child was found 
dead, his parents unable to explain how he could have gotten 
out of the house.  Again, the child was nine years old, and 
again, there was the mutilation.

Three more children were killed over the next three weeks, 
all under the same conditions.  But what was peculiar, beyond 
the manner in which they died, was the observation that all of 
the children were not just the same age, but had been born the 
same month: February 1973.  And in three of the six cases, the 
color of the eyes had changed without explanation.

Doggett searched the articles for some sense of how large the 
development might be, and was shocked to find that it was 
relatively small, perhaps three dozen houses spread evenly over 
a main road and several cul-de-sacs.  It was hard to imagine 
that there would be that many families with children born in 
the same exact month, all unable to prevent their children from 
being murdered within days of each other.

Just as he was about to wonder how long the serial killing had 
continued, an article dated May 31, 1982 provided an answer:

SERIAL KILLER CAUGHT AND ARRRESTED DURING SEVENTH ATTACK

According to the article, the killer had been the manager of 
the planned community.  Doggett saw the connection immediately.  
The killings had to have been planned long in advance, with 
specific families being approved for the community based on 
the age of their children.  It was unlikely that the families 
would ever realize what was happening over the years.  How many 
families would worry over the fact that their children would 
have several children the same age to interact with?  And so 
the development manager would have the master key to every 
building, intimate knowledge of the layout of the area, and 
a clear picture of which families had what he was looking 
for.

It was so plainly obvious that Doggett began to wonder how 
the man had managed to elude suspicion for weeks.  It took a 
few moments to determine that at the time he was captured, he 
had proudly admitted his guilt, claiming that the children had 
been willing sacrifices to bring about the return of the Lord 
of Lords.  The man's house had been filled with pictures of 
the children and words scrawled on the office walls: Ikhnaton, 
Itsacon, and references to "children of the west".  The articles 
claimed ignorance regarding the meaning.  But it seemed impossible 
to imagine that an obvious suspect, with evidence plainly lain 
out in his office and home, would have escaped notice for weeks.  
Shaking his head, Doggett scanned back to the earlier articles 
once again, looking for some rationale that might explain the 
lapse in the investigation.

What he found left him cold.  In every instance, after each and 
every case, the manager had been questioned and consulted.  In 
fact, the manager had met with police several times in relation 
to the layout of the community, providing maps and information 
regarding the families.  There was no hint of evidence linking 
the manager to the crimes, not until after his capture.

Scanning past the man's capture, he read several articles regarding 
the investigation.  Against all reason, no mention was made of 
the manager's ability to elude capture or notice.  Very little 
was said regarding the reason for the killings, and it seemed 
as though there was little public outcry for an explanation.  
More to the point, even the parents of the murdered children 
seemed to have little interest in why their children had been 
targeted.

It was a puzzle that defied reason.  Six children murdered 
by an apparent religious fanatic, somehow removed from their 
homes without notice, despite the clear and present danger 
facing them.  A police department that was unable to note 
the obvious guilt of a man aiding them in the investigation, 
with no interest in determining the meaning behind the 
ritualistic overtones.  Parents of murdered children with 
an equal level of apathy regarding the deaths of their own 
children.

With no clear expectation of what he might find, after all 
the conflicting and illogical information that he had already 
amassed, Doggett wondered if the parents of the seventh child 
might have acted differently, or reacted with more demand than 
the others.  Finding the article regarding the family, Doggett 
passed his tired eyes over a paragraph, a mention of how the 
unidentified family wanted to put it all behind them.

Doggett tapped his pen against his notebook in thought, and 
then searched for any mention of the intended victim's name 
or the family's identity.  If the murders in May 1982 were 
related to the current situation, then it made sense that 
he would have to follow-up on the unresolved issues himself.  
He reasoned that the family of the child that survived would 
be more willing to revisit those memories.

It took several moments, but he finally found a reference 
to the intended victim buried in one of the final articles 
regarding the killings.  As soon as his eyes fell on the name, 
he went completely still.  He had found one final, damning 
connection.

The intended victim had been Thomas Gabriel McShane.

***

"You're sure?"

Doggett resisted the urge to nod, that odd habit of people 
who found themselves on cellular phones too many hours out 
of the day.  "Positive.  I managed to get copies of the real 
estate records for the development, which is still active, 
believe it or not.  The McShane family bought a home at the 
address mentioned in the article in 1975, and stayed at 
that address until June 1982."

There was a slight rustle as Skinner ran a hand over his 
mouth.  "This is beginning to get a bit bigger than the 
unexplained death of one teenage girl.  Any record of where 
the McShanes went after that?"

"It's difficult to follow their progress for the next few 
years," Doggett explained as he left the library, pausing to 
hold the door for a couple young students.  "In and out of 
state, never staying in one location for long.  But that's 
when I started finding the first indications that little Thomas 
McShane had begun paying less and less attention to the 
rules."

"He has a juvenile record?"

"Accessed several times over the past ten years," Doggett 
confirmed.  "No one can say by whom, but three guesses."

"Our friends at the Cranford Police Department?" Skinner 
guessed with a sigh.

"That's what I was thinking."  Doggett turned around the 
corner of the building towards the parking lot.  "The juvenile 
record is fairly similar to his adult record, but there's 
a bit of a difference."

"What kind of difference?"


"During the years that the McShanes were living out of state, 
and even outside of the local area, there are a ton of instances 
of Thomas being picked up for hitchhiking, trespassing, and 
truancy.  It's like this kid wanted to be someplace very, very 
badly.  He was even picked up once for attempted grand larceny, 
but they bargained that down because he was eleven at the time."

"Eleven years old and trying to steal a car?  Where was he 
living?"

"Rural Tennessee," Doggett answered with a laugh.  "Outside 
Knoxville.  And according to the clerk, who sounded just this 
side of a hundred, it was a riding mower, which might also 
have had something to do with the reduced charges."  He 
chuckled, and then scanned the lot for his car.  It was exactly 
where he remembered it should be.  So why was something 
suddenly bothering him?

"John?" Skinner's voice seemed slightly distant.

"Yeah, I'm here."  He shook his head, continued towards the 
car.  "Anyway, as you can guess, this began to really put a 
strain on the family, and eventually the father ran off with 
some pretty young thing in Portsmouth, Virginia.  The mother 
and Thomas moved back to where her family lived."

Skinner caught the connection instantly.  "Cranford."

"That's right.  And then, like that, things change.  A lot 
more trespassing and truancy incidents, and the beginning of 
a long list of assault and battery charges leading right up 
until the night of the incident.  The best part is, all of 
those trespassing charges?  All for the local area, all at 
night, and almost always on properties close to the woods."

"Which matches with what the local department said about him," 
Skinner said, putting the pieces together.  "But if he wasn't 
involved in the death of this girl, what is he doing running 
around in the middle of the night loaded for bear?"  There was 
a pause.  "John?  John?"

Doggett did not hear him.  Instead, he was focused on the very 
large bird sitting on the top of his rental car, staring at him 
intently.  The brilliant jade of the raven's eye seemed to rush 
right through him, reminding him distinctly of his conversation 
with McShane.  Even more, it seemed as though there was some 
kind of message he was supposed to be getting, some feeling of 
importance.  All of this came in the split second that he 
saw the creature spreading its wings wide, calling to its 
unseen companions.

"Agent Doggett!"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm here, I'm all right," Doggett breathed.  
Skinner's voice broke the silent connection, bringing him back 
to some semblance of reality.  "Just some bird sitting on my car, 
if you can believe it."  Doggett forced himself to recall what 
Skinner had been saying.  "I have no idea how McShane fits into 
this picture.  I have to think that his experience as a child 
has something to do with it.  Certainly he thinks so.  But there 
are so many unanswered questions about those killings...enough 
question, anyway, that it's a bit difficult to see what it has 
to do with the present."  Doggett sighed.  "I'm thinking of 
calling Agent Reyes."

"Already?" Skinner replied with obvious disappointment.  "You 
know how that might look..."

"I think that there are more than enough instances of cult or 
ritual overtones to warrant her involvement," Doggett responded.  
"Besides, if you think that I should wait just to satisfy Kersh, 
then I think we might want to make a statement of our own.  
If I'm going to be the only agent on the X-Files, then I am 
going to need a little discretion for calling in experts on 
cases like this."

"I just want to make sure it's something we can justify," 
Skinner said, almost attempting to placate him.

"Right," Doggett said with a tolerant sigh.  "Tell you what, 
I'll call her as soon as I know I need her, and no sooner."

"Agreed," Skinner said with much greater satisfaction.  "Good 
work, John.  Let me know what McShane has to say."

Doggett waited for the line to clear, and then stared at his 
phone, considering if he should make the call sooner than later.  
Shaking his head, he was about to slide the phone back into his 
pocket when a resounded screech emerged from the raven.  He 
looked up to find the bird staring him down again, as if 
somehow daring him.

Almost unconsciously, he punched the number for his speed dial, 
and noted with some relief that the raven launched into the 
sky as soon as the familiar click reached through the line.

"This is Agent John Doggett," he said at the usual query.  
"I'd like to speak to Agent Monica Reyes."

CHAPTER THREE (1/2)

November 28, 2000

11:33 PM

Clark, NJ

Agent Monica Reyes rubbed her eyes, and then stared at the 
notebook filled with Doggett's notes once again, looking for 
some further sense of the connection between all of the events 
he had described.  But just as before, there was little more 
that she could discern from it all, besides a very clear 
indication that Thomas Gabriel McShane was not a murderer.

She tapped the notes regarding the 1982 murders.  "The thing 
that I get out of this...it's as though the parents of those 
kids were completely unaware of the danger.  Usually, in a 
case like this, the parents are massively overprotective 
about the safety of their children.  In this case, the opposite 
appears to be true.  And that makes me very uncomfortable."

"I was thinking the same thing," Doggett affirmed, taking a 
seat across from her.  They were sitting at the small coffee 
table in his hotel room, going over the basics before the 
anticipated second interview with McShane in the morning.  Any 
hope that Monica might provide an instant moment of revelation 
had been dashed when her forehead furrowed into the worry lines 
that suggested she was more than a little perplexed.

"This thing with the eyes," she said with a shake of her head.  
"Very weird.  I've never seen anything like that before.  It's 
almost as though there is exposure to something, like a disease.  
But I'm assuming that there's nothing in the autopsy reports?"

"Nothing in the pathology, no," Doggett confirmed.

"Then something is still missing from this picture," Monica 
said.  But she quickly shook her head.  "No, I take that back.  
It's here somewhere, in the way all of this fits together."

"The common element is McShane," Doggett said, suddenly feeling 
foolish.  Did he really need Monica there to confirm everything 
he had determined on his own?

"No, not quite," Monica said, and now she had Doggett's complete 
attention.  "If there is one thing that this tells me, it's that 
McShane is as much a piece of the puzzle as everything else you 
have here.  He might see where he fits, but he is not in control 
here.  He is reacting...to what, I don't know, but he is definitely 
reacting to something."

Doggett thought about it, and then nodded.  "I think I see what 
you mean.  You're thinking of his juvenile record?"

"Yep," she said with a grin.  "Think about it.  He's involved 
in this mess in '82, and then out of nowhere, he's got to be 
somewhere, and he's got it bad enough that he's willing to 
drive a lawn tractor to get there.  And by the way his record 
takes that left turn when he moved back to Cranford with his 
mother, I'd be willing to bet that Cranford's the place he was 
trying to get to."

"So whatever it is he was looking for, it's in Cranford," 
Doggett repeated.  "That explains the trespassing, I guess.  
Think he's still looking for this...whatever?"

"The fact that he's still here, and still running up a record 
of minor offenses, tends to suggest it," Monica replied.  She 
studied the notes, obviously did not find something she was 
looking for.  "What happened to the manager of the development, 
the one who killed the other six children?"

"Killed himself after capture," Doggett remarked.  "Nothing 
out of the ordinary.  At least according to the paper.  Hung 
himself."

"So he wasn't trying to get back to find the killer," she said 
with a sigh.  She shook her head.  "We might want to follow 
up on that information, if we run out of places to look.  But 
I still get the gut feeling...McShane wanted to come back for 
something, John.  I just know it.  And more than that, I think 
he might have found it."

"Why do you say that?"  Doggett smirked.  "Not one of those 
'vibration' things again..."

Monica eyed him with amusement.  "Hey, why else did you call 
me here, anyway?  But it's not just that.  McShane doesn't seem 
to be desperate.  Even given the way he's been mistreated, from 
what you say, he's taking it all very calmly."

"Sure," Doggett said with a grin.  "He's not the murderer."

"It's not that," Monica insisted.  "He was outside of the 
girl's house, armed.  He knew something was going to happen 
that night.  He had to know.  Why else would he be there?  And 
that means that he found whatever he was looking for, and 
whatever that thing is, it's connected to the reason why that 
girl is dead."

"Connected," Doggett said, and then realized what that meant.  
"But not the cause?"

Monica shook her head, and looked him dead in the eye, her 
expression grave.  "If McShane did not kill that girl, and 
had no intention of killing that girl...then something killed 
her.  Something that could be stopped."

"Why do you say that?" Doggett pressed, sure that they were 
getting somewhere.

"I'd have to check McShane's arsenal to be sure," Monica 
cautioned.  "But just from what you've told me, it seems 
pretty clear.  If he knew something was going to happen that 
night, and he was armed...he was trying to stop that girl 
from dying."

***

November 29, 2000

Cranford, NJ

Monica slid her fingers over the hilt of the dagger, 
taking a moment to admire the workmanship.  The markings were 
almost exactly what she had been expecting to see, based on 
her impressions of the man who had been wielding them.  Never 
mind that she had never actually met the man; she had listened 
to the tone of John's voice, the way he described him, the 
notes that he had taken.  All of it pointed to a man with a 
mission,true, but not a mission of violence.  It was something 
that practically screamed into her mind: this man is not what 
he appears.

She had to admit, she was counting on John's reactions more 
than she might usually allow herself.  Part of that was the 
history that they shared.  She, perhaps more than anyone, 
understood his reluctance to look inward, to rely on the unspoken 
patterns and weavings that determined the course of a person's 
life.  It was the acknowledgement of those connections, allowing 
oneself to let them guide and inform, that gave her the insights 
that she had become notorious for.  It worked rather well in her 
field of expertise, but the applications were endless.

John denied those feelings, however, and so the very fact 
that he mentioned that McShane had affected him, even in the 
slightest sense, gave her reason to pause.

Lifting yet another small but intricately carved blade to her 
eyes, letting her gaze run over the markings with practiced 
ease, she nodded to herself with a smile.  "This is what I 
was expecting."

"And what is that?" Officer Davis asked from the doorway.  
While the officer had quickly consented to her presence, it 
was obvious that John had applied a great deal of personal 
willpower to make it happen.

"Agent Reyes is an expert in ritualistic crime," John reminded 
Davis with a bit more gruffness than usual.  Monica forced 
herself not to smile over her shoulder at him, since it would 
aggravate the local officer more.

"These markings are clearly from various cultures, spanning 
from Celtic influences in Ireland and Scotland to Asian and 
even South American sigils and glyphs.  The variety alone would 
make it difficult for a novice in the field to come to any 
logical conclusion, and might even lead them to ignore the one 
thing that links them all together."  She tapped the runes on 
the blade she was inspecting.  "These are marks of protection.  
One might even call them wardings of some type."

She turned towards Davis.  "The point is, no matter how many 
of these weapons he might have been carrying, one cannot and 
should not ignore the context that the type of weapon invokes.  
If I were to hazard an opinion, just based on what I see here, 
I would say that McShane was definitely carrying these weapons 
as a means of defense against something.  The markings bear 
that out."

"Are you trying to tell me that McShane carried these weapons 
for good reasons, Agent Reyes?"  Davis asked with obvious 
contempt.  "Might I remind you that a girl is dead?"

"And I have yet to hear an explanation as to how he managed 
to kill Ms. Benoit without actually entering the house," Monica 
replied, her tone even.  "According to your own report, Officer 
Davis, the suspect was apprehended after a scuffle with a local 
boy.  Is that not the case?"

"There was more than enough time between the time of death 
and the time we picked McShane up for him to have been involved 
in both acts," Davis countered.  "That's not the point."

"Of course," Monica consented, not willing to continue an 
argument that would likely have no end.  "Let's get back to 
the weapons question,then.  It's not a matter of good or bad, 
so much, as a matter of intent.  Weapons are weapons, and are 
generally used for the purpose of inflicting wounds.  But just 
as certain martial arts techniques, while certainly meant to 
inflict bodily harm, can also be meant to be used for defense 
only, weapons can have a use that is specific to a type of 
conflict or intent.  In this case, Mr. McShane went to a lot 
of trouble to put together a collection of weapons that speak 
directly to an intent to dispel or eliminate a certain kind of 
spiritual or even physical threat."

This caught John's attention.  "What kind of threat?  I mean, 
to be honest, I look at this arsenal, and all I see is a guy 
with a Dungeons and Dragons fantasy."

"And to the untrained eye, that is exactly what it might 
look like," Monica repeated, glancing at Davis as she said 
it.  "But these weapons are unique, and there are collectors 
who might never know that these weapons even existed.  McShane 
would have had to have gone to a lot of trouble to find these 
weapons, for a specific purpose."  She pointed to another 
weapon, one adorned with Incan carvings.  "That blade should 
not even be found outside of the region it was discovered.  
The native peoples who watch over relics like those would never 
let a casual collector get their hands on one of them."  Monica 
looked John in the eye, emphasizing the import of her words.  
"Only someone regarded as worthy of its possession would be 
allowed to touch it, let alone take it away on their person."

John leaned forward, clearly understanding what she was trying 
to say.  "Then what makes McShane so special, that he would 
be carrying something like that?"

Monica shrugged, placing the blade in her hand back on the 
evidence tray.  "I think it's time I met Mr. McShane, and 
maybe we'll find out."

***

Monica found herself at a loss of words, something that 
was seldom the case.  It was as if the entire room was 
resonating with the personal power of the man sitting across 
the table from her, as if John was not even in the room with 
them.  Just as John had noted, it was as though the man's 
eyes were looking right through her, noting every nuance 
of thought and expectation, and finding it infinitely amusing.

"Did you tell them what you thought of my collection?" 
McShane asked, just before she was about to introduce herself.  
Not waiting for a response, he smiled and continued.  "That 
is why you are here, isn't it?  To try and figure me out?"

She thought about what to say, failed to find words that 
might restore her sense of control.  "All right.  I'm here 
to figure you out, as you say."  She gestured towards the door.  
"It's a nice collection, if a little unorthodox.  Care to tell 
me how you managed to get some of those items?"

McShane turned to John, as if playing at a confidential 
comment.  "Notice how the question goes directly to the point 
of the matter, rather than what I might have expected from 
someone like Davis or Fell.  They always ask me why I was 
carrying them."  He looked back at her.  "You already know.  
The only question now is, what is the exact nature of this 
'protection', am I right?"

Monica shrugged.  "If you say so."

McShane nodded slowly, as if assessing the response.  
"Noncommittal.  But that's all right."  He leaned back, 
inspected the tips of his fingers.  "They are gifts, mostly.  
From our familiar frame of reference, yes, they are weapons.  
In another frame of reference, they are something very different.  
You might call them devices.  Tools.  You understand?"

"I think so," she replied, glancing at John to confirm that 
he was listening carefully.  It would not be like him to lapse 
during an interrogation, but there was a certain sense that 
this conversation was taking place within an undefined zone 
of privacy.  "Just as a tool can be used as a weapon, like a 
hammer or scissors, these weapons can be used as tools."

"That's a loose understanding, but yes," McShane replied.  
"But in this case, the weapons are fashioned for the utility 
in mind.  To use one of those items as merely a knife, like 
as to cut one's meat...it would amount to sacrilege."

"What does this have to do with that little errand you sent 
me on?" John asked suddenly, breaking his silence.

"It has everything to do with it," McShane replied, as calmly 
as ever.  He turned to look John in the eye, and Monica had to 
resist the urge to reengage his attention.

"Not that I can see," John snapped back, his patience wearing 
thin.  "You keep talking, Thomas, but I'm not hearing anything 
that's making much sense.  What do these weapons of yours have 
to do with those murders you told me to investigate?  Other 
than the fact that you were the victim who survived?"

"You would not understand if I explained it to you," McShane 
said, his tone almost saddened.  He turned back to Monica, gestured 
towards her with his chin.  "You called her for a reason.  This 
is the world she lives in, the kind of path that she has learned 
to walk."  He turned back to John.  "You operate differently.  
You cannot simply see the path and trust in it.  You have to 
walk every step, feel each and every stone under your heel, before 
you trust in the destination at its end.  For you, it is as much 
about the journey."  He shrugged.  "There is a wisdom in this.  
I need you to understand, and so, I provide you with a map and 
the perfect guide."

It took her a moment to realize what it was McShane had said.  
He had known that John would call her in on the case!  She 
began reviewing their conversation, going over the words again, 
seeking meaning that might have escaped her the first time around.

"Fine, Thomas," John was saying as he knocked on the door, 
preparing to leave.  "Play this kind of game if you want.  But 
if you intend to help us discover what happened here, then I'd 
skip the riddles and start making more sense."

McShane nodded, but now he was looking at Monica, catching 
her attention.  "Go to Unami Park in Cranford.  Walk into the 
deepest part of the woods there.  There are several trails.  
You will see how these events connect."

"Is that all?" John asked, his lack of patience far from 
soothed.

"No," McShane said.  "You found the words, the ones left by 
the one who wanted to kill me?"

"We did," Monica answered.

"Good," McShane replied with a nod.  "Then you should..."  
The door opened suddenly, and Davis was staring at McShane, 
as if daring the man to say more.  McShane smiled slightly, 
breathing deeply as a faint sense of amusement seemed to 
dance in the green captivation of his eyes.

Monica stood, wishing that they had not been interrupted at 
that moment.  As she walked towards the door, John's hand on 
her shoulder, he heard McShane call after her softly.

"Agent Reyes," he whispered.  "Genesis 4:7."

And then the door closed behind them.

(2/2)

"Did you catch that?" she asked, refusing the urge to 
look over her shoulder as they stepped out into the light 
of day.

"Which part?" John asked, his expression slightly troubled.  
"The biblical reference, or the fact that McShane was about to 
say more when Davis came in to shut him up?"

"Take your pick," Monica said with a sigh.  "You weren't 
kidding when you said the local boys didn't like him.  I think 
maybe they know more than they're letting on."

"I was getting that feeling before, but I definitely agree 
with that now," John said, searching his suit jacket for the 
keys to the rental.  "I'm not sure if Sergeant Fell is the one 
who assigned Davis to keep us out of the loop, but whoever it 
was, that was a mistake.  Davis is too obvious.  And given 
the kind of case this is turning into, I don't like the idea 
that the police are involved."

Monica ran a hand through her hair, looking at the sky.  It 
was steadily darkening, and the wind was beginning to pick up.  
Her eyes caught motion from the direction of the police station, 
and dismissed it when she saw it was only a raven hopping along 
the edge of the eave of the building.  "It's not uncommon.  
Small towns have their secrets.  But it is odd for something 
like this to be happening in a suburb with this much activity 
and outside contact."

She was several strides closer to the car when she realized 
that John was no longer next to her.  Turning, she saw him 
staring at the raven, his expression worried.

"What is it?" she asked, watching him closely.

"I'm not one for birds, but last time I checked, ravens aren't 
native to this state," he said, nodding towards the bird, which 
was now looking directly at them, the fading light reflecting 
in its emerald eye.  "Would you believe that this is the third 
time in as many days that I've seen one?"

Monica could hear something in the tone of his voice, something 
he wasn't telling her.  "Is there a reason you're bringing this 
up now?  Do you think it means something?"

He looked at her, the thoughtful expression now replaced with 
the usual skepticism.  "It's a bird, Monica."

"I know," she said, keeping it light.  It did mean something to 
him, on some level.  That much, she was certain.  "Maybe it likes 
your eyes.  Thinks they're pretty."

John smiled slightly, rolling those baby blues, and tossed 
her the keys.  "Your turn.  If McShane is going to have us 
running all over town, then it's a good idea for both of us to 
get used to the roads.  Just in case we have to split up."

Monica snatched them out of the air, pressing the button to 
unlock the doors as her fingers wrapped around them.  "Do you 
know where this Unami Park is?"

"Caught it on the wall map on the way out," John said as he 
slid into the passenger seat.  "Not too far."  He looked up at 
the distant sound of thunder.  "We should hurry."

***

The rolling thunder was closer by the time they walked across 
the field and entered the woods.  At John's suggestion, after 
they had found the park, they drove around it to get a sense 
of the size of the park.  To their surprise, it was relatively 
small, and most of it was open space.  Only the portion furthest 
from the entrance could be considered "woods", and that part 
was surrounded by residential areas, mostly the backs of houses.  
From the street, in most cases, one could look through the trees 
and see the faint outline of the houses on the other side.

"We're supposed to find something in here?" John muttered, 
checking his flashlight.  They might need it if the trees and 
darkened cloud cover made it difficult to see.

"If McShane mentioned this place, then I have the feeling 
that it carries some significance."  She scanned the trees 
themselves as they walked along the path that had been worn 
into the underbrush.  The trail was wide enough that one could 
easily tell that it was well used.

"I can see those houses on the other side pretty clearly," 
John called over his shoulder, as he took the lead.  "Is it 
normal for cult activity to take place in an area like this?"

"It's usually more carefully hidden, true," Monica replied.  
She fumbled in her coat pocket for a moment, and then cursed 
herself under her breath.  When was she going to stop doing 
that, every time she felt like she was walking into a tense 
situation?

"Unless the people who own those houses don't notice," John 
said with a grin.  But then his expression changed, growing 
more serious.  "Like the parents of those kids in '82."

Monica had to admit that it was a possibility.  "There are a 
lot of instances where people are doing odd things with no 
explanation.  I'd almost think that there was some of mind 
control taking place."

John stopped and turned towards her, his eyes speaking for 
him.

"I'm serious," she said, looking at him with exasperation.  
"Maybe the killer used hypnosis, planting the suggestions 
over the years in order to produce the desired effect when 
the time was right."

"So why would McShane, at the age of nine, be able to resist?"  
John looked at the ground, and then pointed in a different 
direction.  "There's another path leading this way."  His head 
tilted oddly to one side.  "Does it look like there are more 
trees over there than there should be?"

Monica smiled, thinking of what an odd comment that was, 
until she looked in the same direction and noticed what he 
was talking about.  Where it had once been possible to see 
the houses on the other side of the wood, looking in the 
direction the new path indicated, it was no longer the 
case.

"I think this is the way we're supposed to go," John said, 
looking to her to suggest an alternative.

Still rattled by the sudden shift around them, she nodded.  
"Seems like it."  As they began to walk, she noticed that 
there was a subtle difference in the air, something palpable but 
defying identification.  "This is more than just the way the 
trees happened to grow or how they arranged,"she muttered to 
herself.

"I think there's some sort of clearing ahead...what the hell 
is this?"  

Passing between two large trees, she noticed that John was 
standing in a small clearing.  Suddenly suspicious, she 
looked to one side, and then the other.  "John...
the trees..."

John was standing next to a small but deep depression in 
the center of the clearing, filled with debris sitting over 
several layers of what appeared to be sheets of plastic.  
At the sound of her voice, he looked up, and shock crossed 
his face.  "How did...Monica, we drove around this park how 
many times?  I'm positive we would have noticed if there was 
an area this large in the center of the woods where you couldn't 
see through to the other side."

"And yet, here we are," Monica said, stating the obvious but 
understanding that it had to be said, that John had to hear 
her confirm the situation they had found themselves in.  
"That question you asked me before?  About McShane?  Who 
says he wasn't affected?"

John went back to inspecting the pile of debris, kneeling 
down to get a closer look at the sheets of plastic.  "What 
do you mean?"

The threatening rain began to fall, dripping past the bare 
branches overhead.  "Even you have to admit that his record 
suggests that he was under some kind of influence, trying 
to get back here without explanation, no matter where he 
happened to live at the time."  She started looking carefully 
at the trees, inspecting their surfaces for anything that 
might suggest what this place was used for.  "What if he was 
able to resist the initial commands, but there was something 
else that was suggested to him, bringing him back?"

"That's all well and good," John replied, "but if we are going 
to go that far, then we might as well ask ourselves why the 
killer would have hung himself if his intended victim was 
supposed to come back for some future contingency plan."  Looking 
around, he grabbed a long branch from one side, pushing against 
a larger branch holding down the plastic.

Monica thought she noticed something in one of the larger 
trees surrounding the clearing, and walked towards it, carefully 
stepping past the pit of debris.  "Is it possible that the 
killer planted the suggestion of continuing the ritual, maybe 
repeating it at some future time?"  She stepped up to the tree, 
looking at it carefully.

"That's awfully far fetched," John scoffed, predictably.  "And 
if we go by that, it opens anyone who ever came in contact with 
the killer as a suspect now.  All those parents, the police, the 
press...all the people who would have suddenly lost interest in 
pursuing the case based on what would be this post-hypnotic 
suggestion."  He paused, noticing her silence.  "Find something?"

"Maybe," Monica said, tracing something carved into the trunk 
of the tree.  "Looks like someone carved a crown into this tree 
trunk.  It's not recent, though.  I'd say, maybe ten years."  
Troubled, she began scanning the rest of the trees surrounding 
the clearing.  Usually when there were symbols, there were 
several of them, establishing a pattern or defining an 
area.

"Ten years?"  John resumed his attempts to look under the 
plastic.  "I remember Davis saying something about McShane being 
involved in something ten years ago.  Something about some local 
teens being involved in something, and a girl almost getting 
killed.  Davis seemed to think McShane was behind it, but nothing 
could be proven."

"Did you find out who the girl was?" Monica asked absently, 
trying to remember if it was in the notes while also looking 
carefully at the trees around her.

"No.  But if we find something here, and it might be from the 
same time frame, then we might want to see if we can find her 
now."  She heard his intake of breath, caught a scent of decay 
on the air.  She turned to find John covering his nose with one 
forearm, holding up the edge of one sheet of plastic with the 
branch in his other hand.

"Smells like something died in there," Monica said, and then 
considered her statement more carefully.  "Safe bet it's animal 
remains.  That's standard for ritual sites."

"Good to hear," John said, letting the plastic fall back to 
the ground.  "But I think I'll check anyway."  He noticed that 
the rain was falling harder now, and saw that it was beginning 
to tickle into the pit.  "Looks like I'll have to work fast."  
He started grabbing debris from the top of the pile, pushing it 
off when possible.  "Find any more evidence carved into the 
trees?"

"Yeah, over here.  This is one is just as old."  She looked 
down, and realized that she was standing at the spot where they 
had entered the clearing.  Looking at the tree on the other side 
of the path leading away from the open space, she realized that 
there was a crown symbol carved into both trees to each side of 
the path.  Quickly making her way back to the tree where she 
noticed the first symbol, she noticed that there was a path 
next to that tree as well, carefully hidden.  And just as with 
the other path, there was a tree on the opposite side of the 
second path that had been carved.

Careful not to get in John's way, she stepped close to the pit 
and looked at where the two paths stood in alignment with one 
another.  It was about a 120 degree angle between the two points 
of entry.  Nodding to herself, she turned and looked directly 
behind her, finding a third path exactly where she now expected 
one to be.

"I think I see how this place is arranged," she said, as John 
stopped to listen to her.  "Three points, forming a triangle."

"Not a pentagram?"

She gave him a smirk.  "Three paths leading into the space at 
each point of the triangle, with this pit in the exact center 
of the space defined by the markings on the trees.  If they 
were conducting animal sacrifices here, then this would definitely 
be some sort of meeting place for rituals."  She shook her head.  
"Only I'm not sure how this would connect with the rituals from 
the murders in Clark.  None of those words or references 
are showing up here."

"And yet, McShane said we would find something here that would 
help make this all fit together," John said, as he pushed the 
last large piece of debris out of the pit.  The sheets of plastic 
were now floating in a shallow pool of darkened, soiled water.  
Using the branch, John started poking at the space underneath, 
frowning as he began getting a sense of what might be hidden.  
"Monica.  I think I found something more than just a few animal 
sacrifices."

She turned, and saw that he was hitting something large and 
heavy under the plastic.  Something gripped her then, a powerful 
sense of what this place was, and what it was meant to represent.  
"Oh...oh, no..."

She heard John expel a heavy breath, and followed his gaze.  
Pressing up against the layers of plastic, barely visible, was 
the pale and bloated shape of a human hand.

CHAPTER FOUR (1/6)

November 29, 2000

2:50 PM

Cranford, NJ

Agent Doggett leaned across the wooden table, his eyes 
boring into McShane even as they blazed with anger.  "I want 
to know right here, right now, what kind of game you think 
you're playing."

McShane shook his head, his appearance calm, but there was 
a slight lack of composure that seemed to betray itself when 
he spoke.  "No games.  I had no idea that you would find a 
body in the park.  I was only pointing you to one of their 
gathering places."

"Whose gathering places?  The ones who killed Simone Benoit?  
The ones who killed Timothy Mathis?  Or are we talking about 
the same people here?"  Doggett slid back into his seat, his 
eyes never straying from his target.  "Does this have something 
to do with the incident that Officer Davis mentioned, the one 
that happened ten years ago?"

McShane sighed, then shrugged.  "These places are used when 
they are deemed convenient, or when there is some goal to be 
achieved.  Was that place used about ten years ago, and was 
I involved in an incident related to that?  Yes, that is true.  
Was I aware that this place was still in use?  Of course.  That's 
why I sent you there."  He leaned forward slightly.  "But I had 
no idea that there was another body."  He looked towards the 
hidden camera.  "Maybe Officer Davis would like to explain 
why he never mentioned that anyone was reported missing."

"We checked that," Monica interjected.  "The parents said he 
was supposed to be staying with a friend for a few days.  They 
had no idea that he was missing."

Doggett knew that McShane had heard her comment, but the man 
turned to him instead.  "Of course not.  Doesn't that sound at 
all familiar?"

Doggett opened his mouth to respond, but he was suddenly struck 
by the fact that McShane was completely correct.  If there was 
any question that there were similar methods being employed, 
and very similar circumstances coming to pass, McShane's comment 
made it very clear.

"The autopsy on Timothy Mathis reports that he was the same 
age as the previous victim.  Eyes were reported green on every 
piece of identifying documentation, but the coroner swears that 
his eyes were blue.  Time of death is hard to determine due to 
exposure, but estimates say he died two days ago.  Which places 
his death not long after death of Simone Benoit.  It could have 
been a matter of hours, before or after."

"That's very possible," McShane commented, as if thinking aloud.  
He cursed under his breath.  "Of course."  His attention turned 
back to Doggett.  "Officer Davis took a statement from Eric 
Decampo that night.  And from her parents.  Where did they say 
that Eric was supposed to be taking Simone when they were going 
out?"

"Unami Park," Doggett muttered.  He shook his head.  "You're 
telling me that Decampo had something to do with this?  Why not 
come right out and say that before?"  Before McShane could answer, 
he pressed on, recognizing what this information was revealing.  
"That's why you were fighting with Decampo that night, isn't it?"

"You knew something was going to happen to Simone Benoit," 
Monica added.  "You knew Decampo was involved."

McShane sighed, nodded his head slightly.  "Everything pointed 
to him being involved.  I had good reason to suspect that he 
might try to do something to Simone, but I was under the impression 
that it was going to happen in the park.  I positioned myself 
between her parent's house and the park, intending to stop him 
from taking her there.  Only she never left the house, and I 
didn't realize what had happened until it was too late."

"So what are you saying?" Doggett bit out, as if trying to 
force McShane to talk through sheer force of will.  "That you 
were arrested outside of the house because you knew something 
was going to happen, but you didn't realize that it was going 
to happen inside the house?"

"You were outside waiting when you were discovered by Decampo 
and his friends," Monica said from over Doggett's shoulder, 
her voice wavering slightly.  "They were coming from the park, 
weren't they?"

"They knew," McShane said, and now his voice sounded defeated.  
"They knew I was going to try to stop them.  And so they laid a 
trap for me.  They killed Timothy Mathis in the park, knowing 
that I would be waiting for them to get Simone.  But they had 
already gotten to her."

Doggett stared at McShane for a moment, as if reviewing what 
he had just heard, and then shook his head.  "This is all very 
nice, Thomas, but there's a problem.  Something I don't think 
your story can explain.  If they had already gotten to Simone 
before they went to the park, and they caught up with you on 
the way from the park to the Benoit residence, then we have a 
problem.  I can buy the idea that they took a different way to 
the park than they took coming back, but Simone's mother was 
talking to her from the bottom of the stairs from the moment 
she walked in the door.  They spoke to each other.  There were 
no screams, no struggle, nothing.  So how would Decampo or his 
friends kill Simone Benoit without anyone seeing them come 
in, or leave?"

McShane listened to Doggett intently, and then sighed.  "You 
don't understand.  They wouldn't have needed to be there to 
kill her."

"That makes no damn sense, and you know it," Doggett retorted.  
"You're still playing games."

"No," McShane said, and then he looked towards Monica.  "Don't 
you see it yet?  Don't you understand?"

"I'm trying to," Monica said, matter-of-factly.  "But you're 
going to have to do a little more than make obscure references 
and innuendoes.  If Decampo or his friends somehow killed Simone 
Benoit in the way she died without actually being there to commit 
the crime, then how did it 
happen?"

McShane shook his head.  "I can't just say it and hope that 
you'll understand or believe.  If they planned out the deaths 
of Simone Benoit and Timothy Mathis, that means that it really 
has started again.  And unlike last time, they knew I was going 
to try to stop it.  They planned ahead, Agent Doggett," he 
said with emphasis, looking him in the eye.  "They knew I was 
anticipating their actions, and I played right into their hands."

Doggett stood, shaking his head.  "If you're not going to tell 
us more, then we have no choice but to leave you in the hands 
of local law enforcement.  They already gave their version of 
what happened that night.  They said that you killed Simone 
Benoit, then went to the park and killed Timothy Mathis, after 
which Decampo caught up with you."

"And you believe that?" McShane asked with an incredulous 
smirk.

"It's no more and no less believable than your story," Doggett 
answered.  "Both versions of the story are equally questionable.  
Only you called us in here to prove that you were being wrongfully 
accused.  And that means you have the burden of proof.  They get 
to carry their side into the courtroom."

McShane sat back in his chair, shaking his head.  All of the 
composure and calm he had once radiated was now completely 
absent.  "If I tell you what is happening, everything that I 
know, your instincts will be to walk out that door and leave me 
to whatever fate these people choose.  But now that I know that 
they have already killed two people, possibly more...it looks as 
though I am going to have to do something I truly did not want 
to do."

He was still for a moment, as if listening to something faint 
and indistinct, and then nodded to himself.  "As soon as possible, 
you should speak with Kirsten Walden and her brother Craig.  
Tell them that I asked them to explain to you what happened 
ten years ago.  I think that once you hear what they have to 
say, you will truly understand what is happening here."

"Why them?" Monica asked, just before Doggett could respond.  
"Who are they to you?"

"Craig Walden, as Officer Davis will likely tell you, is 
just another troublemaker like me," McShane replied.  "His 
sister Kirsten was in danger.  She was almost killed.  We 
stopped it."

"Is that all?"  Doggett asked, sensing McShane was holding 
something back.

"No," McShane admitted.  "She's also my lover.  And the 
mother of my child."

***

"Are you planning on calling Director Skinner?" Monica 
asked as they left the station.  "Because I'd personally 
love to be a fly on the wall for that conversation."

"You find this situation funny, Agent Reyes?" Doggett 
asked, his present lack of patience slipping out from 
under his control.  "Because this is turning into a nightmare, 
in case you hadn't noticed."

"Back to the 'Agent Reyes' thing, are we?" Monica said, 
shaking her head.  "I know what you're up against...Agent 
Doggett...and I'm trying to help you to the best of my 
ability.  But as much as you may not want to admit it, McShane 
has you pegged.  I think there is something very strange 
happening in this town, something a bit more substantial 
and dangerous than some kids running around playing at Satanic 
worship while getting drunk in the woods.  Two teens are 
dead, and the way they died is not what I'd call typical.  
Even for a case involving ritual or cult activity."

"Then what the hell are we dealing with?" Doggett said, 
as they walked up to the car.  Monica leaned against the door, 
her hand fumbling in her jacket pocket absently.

"If there is a cult, John, then it has to have a foothold in 
the local authority system.  That much is obvious, if we 
are to believe what McShane is telling us."

"And why would we do that?" Doggett pressed.

"You said it yourself, he's not a murderer," Monica replied 
easily.  "Even if we are to believe Davis, and we have every 
reason not to at this point...follow your instincts.  There are 
two versions of the truth that we have heard.  Both appear to 
be impossible.  But like the old saying goes, once you eliminate 
the other possibilities, the impossible must be the truth.  
Which is, I might add, exactly how you operate."  She smiled.  
"At least, when you're not being pig-headed."

Doggett glared at her.  "Pig-headed?"

Monica's smile widened.  "That's right.  And McShane has 
said as much.  OK, he said it a bit nicer, but even he knew 
that you have to see the evidence for yourself before you 
will even consider a theory that challenges your assumptions.  
And even then, it's a luck of the draw."

Doggett continued to glare at her for a moment, and then 
sighed.  "I guess our next move, then, is to see what kind 
of information McShane's friends might enlighten us with."

Monica was quiet for a moment, biting her lower lip slightly.  
Under her gaze, he suddenly felt very uncomfortable.  A tiny 
voice in the back of his head warned him that they were going 
to be treading on familiar ground, and he was definitely not 
in the mood.

"I just want to let you know, John," she started, choosing 
her words carefully.  "This case is starting to give me the 
same kind of feeling that I had when we were dealing with 
that case about a month ago.  It's nothing I can put my finger 
on, but I just wanted to tell you now before this goes any 
further.  There's something out there, in the air.  It's like 
a physical pressure.  And something in the back of my head 
keeps telling me that this is something like what we've seen 
before."  She paused.  "This might be a situation where you 
can't afford to ignore what you know you know..."

"And what would that be?" Doggett snapped.  "Because I'd love 
to hear this story, believe me.  It would fit right in with 
everything else I've had to listen to lately."

"All right, then.  Why did you call me in on this case, if 
something wasn't telling you that you needed me here?"

Doggett hooked a thumb over his shoulder.  "I'd say there's 
more than enough evidence of cults and rituals, Agent Reyes, 
and you are the expert in that field, aren't you?"

"I really hate it when you do that," she muttered, and then 
she shook her head.  "I don't think that's it, and I can tell 
you're not convinced yourself.  In terms of simple evidence 
and information gathering, we have yet to encounter anything 
that you couldn't have handled on your own.  I mean, really, 
you could have sent me pictures of the weapons and renderings 
of the symbols we found.  So why else would you have asked me 
here, unless there was some element to all of this that you 
were unwilling to face alone?"

Doggett waved her out of his way, pulling the keys out of his 
pocket.  "We have a job to do, Agent Reyes, and none of this 
fantasyland nonsense is getting us any closer to getting it 
done.  I think it might be a good idea if we split up once we 
find the Waldens.  It might save time."

Monica hesitated, and then slid away from the door.  "Is this 
your way of avoiding me until you think I've forgotten this 
conversation?"

Doggett resisted the urge to snap out an unfortunate reply, 
and let out a sigh.  "No, Agent Reyes, I'm taking into account 
that if two people are now dead, we might want to find out as 
much as possible before someone else ends up dead.  We can 
compare notes later."

Monica waved her hands in compliant frustration.  "Fine.  
Good idea.  Do you actually know where we're supposed to 
find them?"

Doggett waited until she was in the passenger seat.  "We'll 
try Kirsten Walden's current residence first."

"And that would be where?" Monica said.

"An apartment nearby on Centennial Avenue.  Just over the 
river."

Monica looked at him oddly.  "They live in this town?  When 
the police are just looking for a reason to put McShane 
behind bars?"

"Just another little mystery for us to solve, Agent Reyes."  
Doggett couldn't resist adding, "Let me know if you get any 
feelings about that, hmm?"

Subject: Fic: From That Eternal Silence - Chapter Four (2/6)

4:51 PM

Kirsten Walden Residence

Centennial Avenue met North Avenue just where the river ran, 
within sight of the police station.  A major road for the 
local area, with its proximity to the town's railroad station, 
it was lined with the cars of commuters taking the train or 
bus into New York City.  Given the time of day, and the 
location of Walden's apartment, Doggett found himself looking 
for a parking space on one of the side streets.  As they 
rounded the corner off South Avenue, scanning the street 
behind the apartments, Monica pointed to a large building.

"Masonic Lodge," she muttered.  "They ought to have a parking 
lot."  She looked oddly at the building.  "That might explain 
it."

"Explain what?" Doggett asked, as he pulled into the parking 
lot, the pitch of the ramp making him nervous about bottoming 
out.

"Why they live where they live," Monica replied.

Doggett took a deep breath.  "And how does that fit together?  
Please tell me this has something substantial related to it?"

Monica smiled without amusement.  "Some of the inscriptions 
and glyphs on the weapons that McShane carried have origins 
that coincide with some of the more ritualistic aspects of 
the Masons.  If he felt that those symbols provided some kind 
of protection, then he might have chosen this location, so 
close to the lodge, for similar reasons."  She looked back 
out the window.

"Makes sense," he replied, his tone slightly apologetic.

"Uh-huh," Monica grumbled, and he felt like an idiot for 
unloading on her earlier.  What she had said was something 
that he had no desire to explore, or even acknowledge.  That 
way led to a personal abyss that he had been circling since 
the day he had first heard those words that he would never 
forget, when his world shattered into a million pieces.  
Pieces that even after so many years had failed to come back 
together in any semblance of their former form.  Having been 
staring into that abyss every night of his life, why would 
he willingly plunge headlong into it?

But Monica had none of those fears, none of those reasons 
to remain focused on just what could be seen and heard, 
touched and felt.  And that had been a part of why he had
called her.  As much as he might never allow himself 
to walk that same road, he knew that it was something he 
needed, and something she was willing to place at his 
disposal.

He was working on how to apologize when she pointed to 
something outside the window.  "Get a load of this."

He followed the direction of her gaze, and then saw what 
she was referring to. "Are those ravens?"

"Looks like," Monica said, her expression guarded.

"What?" he asked.  "What's the matter?"

"That's the back of the apartment, right?" she said, gesturing 
towards the yard that the birds had gathered in.  "Do you think 
that Davis or someone else at the police department called ahead?  
Told them we were coming?"

"They might have, but I doubt it," Doggett replied.  "Why?"

"Because someone's waiting for us at the back door," Monica 
said.

"How the..."  Doggett parked the car, sat still for a moment 
as he looked at the figure standing behind the door.  "Even 
if they had called her, how would she have known that we were 
coming now, or parking here?"  Monica eyed him, and he glared 
back.  "Not a word."

"I didn't say anything," she said with a slight smile, opening 
the door.  "Why don't we go talk to the woman who knew we were 
coming without anybody telling her, but for perfectly logical 
reasons, I'm sure?"

Doggett smirked, stepping out of the car.  Glancing at the 
ravens collected in the yard, he noticed that they were all 
facing their direction, watching them intently.  He looked 
over his shoulder, checking to see if they might have been 
reacting to something else.  But there was nothing there, 
and as Monica stepped from the parking lot into the yard, a 
couple of the birds hopped a couple feet back, their eyes 
still watching her every move.

Doggett caught up with her, forcing himself not to look at 
anything but the figure at the door.  "You notice how they're 
watching us?" he murmured.

"That I did," she replied, her tone casual.  But he noted 
the tremor in her voice, and he wondered if she suspected 
something in their behavior.

As they approached the back of the apartment, the door opened 
and a young woman stepped out, a reserved smile on her face.  
Much like McShane, she was remarkably average in her appearance.  
Her hair was perhaps a shade lighter than a completely average 
brown, and it framed her face perfectly.  The color of her skin 
was slightly olive, suggesting a trace of Eastern European 
descent, and while she was hardly what would be considered 
thin, she was also not what would be considered plump.  Instead, 
there was a healthy quality to the way she carried herself, as 
though all of the worries that might otherwise have worn her 
down were nothing.

But there was something not quite right about her, and it took 
a moment for Doggett to recognize what it was.  Looking briefly 
at her eyes, he noticed that they were oddly dark in comparison 
to what he might otherwise have suspected.  They were certainly 
brown, but instead of specks of lighter shades of brown, there 
was nothing but black.

Eyes, he thought to himself.  Why does it always come back to 
the eyes?

"I've been expecting you," the woman said, and Doggett was struck 
by the musical quality of her voice.  Again, there was that 
similarity to McShane.

"Oh, did someone call ahead?" Monica asked casually.

"You could say that a little birdie told me," the woman said 
with a slight smile.  Seeing the lack of amusement in his eyes, 
the woman turned to him.  "My brother is inside, Agent Doggett.  
He's been anxious to speak with you."  She looked over her shoulder.  
"He's playing with Rhiannon."

"Your daughter?" Monica asked, as she stepped inside.

"Yes," Kirsten said, turning towards Doggett.  "Mine and Thomas'.  
But you knew that."

"Your brother Craig was expecting me?" he asked, doing his 
best to ignore the various references to the apparently 
unconventional means by which she had been informed of their 
impending arrival.

"Actually, I think he was expecting you since the day you 
arrived," she replied, leading him out of the kitchen into the 
living room.  "Sooner or later, he knew Thomas would want him 
to explain how they met, and how they know each other...what 
they've done."  There was a slight catch in her voice at the 
last, but she covered it with a smile.  "Why don't I introduce 
you?"

Stepping into the room, he noticed that Monica was talking 
with a young man, no more than twenty-five years old.  He was 
strikingly thin, and yet carried an impression of strength 
beyond what his frame would suggest.  His skin held a slightly 
anemic pallor, as though he were ill.  The combination of his 
sturdy black leather jacket and worn jeans gave the impression 
of someone very dangerous, but Doggett suspected that it was 
the subtle hints that he was carrying weapons that produced 
that effect.  Once again, it was the eyes that caught his 
attention.  Unlike his sister, Craig Walden's brown eyes were 
scattered with striking specks of green.

"Agent Doggett," he said, and he caught the instant resemblance 
in voices.  It apparently ran in the family.  "Good to finally 
meet you."

"Hi, howyadoin'?" he heard by his knee, and looked down to 
see identical eyes staring up at him, accompanied by a 
disarming smile.

He knelt down, returning the little girl's smile.  "I'm fine.  
How are you?"

The little girl giggled, running over to Kirsten and pretending 
to a sudden shyness, batting her eyes at him from behind her 
mother's legs.  He looked up at Kirsten, and saw that quick 
and easy joy that parents always seemed to have in their 
children's ways.  He felt the familiar squeezing of his heart, 
and pushed it away.

"This is Rhiannon," Kirsten, her tone of voice acknowledging 
that it was a somewhat obvious statement.

"How old?" Doggett said, reaching out to stroke the little 
girl's hair, resulting in another round of giggles.

"Just over two," Kirsten replied, looking him in the eye.  
"Kids?"

His smile faded ever so slightly.  How many times had he heard 
that question, without even the slightest reaction?  And yet 
there was something about the way she said it, adding a weight 
that he never would have suspected.

"No," he breathed, and it was as if he was feeling the pain 
again, fresh and blinding.  "Not anymore."

Kirsten nodded, and turned to Monica, who was watching them 
with an expression that was one shade below fear.  "I suppose 
I know why Rhiannon didn't sleep well last night now.  She's 
just about ready for bedtime already, can you believe it?  
But it will allow us to talk without prying eyes and ears.  
Well, hers, anyway."

It was an odd comment to make, but Monica simply nodded, 
subdued by whatever she was reacting to.

"That would be fine," she said, looking at Doggett with that 
look of disquiet in her eyes.

"John and I are going to take a walk," Craig said to Kirsten 
as he stood.  He looked down at Rhiannon, and the little girl 
grinned.  "See you later, kiddo."

"Byebye," Rhiannon said, giving a yawn as she waved at her 
uncle.

"Tonight should be a nice night," Craig said as he turned to 
Doggett.  "I think we might want to get some fresh air."

Doggett looked to Monica, wanting to be sure that she was 
willing to be left alone with Kirsten at the apartment.  Monica 
nodded, flashing him an uneasy smile.  She would do what had 
to do.

"Yeah, sounds great," he finally said, following Craig towards 
the back door.  Whatever it was McShane thought they might find 
out, it had better be good.  Because dealing with his family 
was even more unnerving than dealing with him.

***

As soon as the sound of the back door closing reached the 
living room, Kirsten scooped up Rhiannon and began walking 
up the stairs.  "I'll be right back.  She may not go right 
to sleep, but better she's in her room.  You know?"

Like everything that Kirsten said, there seemed to be some 
deeper meaning to her statement, as though the child's room 
was endowed with some extra measure of comfort.  But Monica 
quickly corrected herself.  Not comfort.  Protection.

While Kirsten was upstairs, Monica took a moment to look 
around the room.  The space was cluttered with the inevitable 
piles of toys, cardboard books, and assorted signs of the 
chaos of raising a child.  Sitting in one corner was a small 
desk with a computer, which happened to be running silently 
with the screen saver engaged.  On a small shelve nailed to 
the wall by the front door, bills and other assorted mail 
sat awaiting a trip to the post office.

Stepping towards the kitchen, Monica noticed that there were 
a couple bookshelves leaning against the far wall.  Scanning 
the titles, she found the collection to be remarkably varied.  
There were books on religion, history, biblical interpretation, 
computer programming, astrophysics, quantum mechanics, all 
intermixed with a liberal collection of science fiction and 
romance novels.  She glanced at one novel sitting on the shelf 
as though it had been placed just out of reach of curious hands.  
It was a book by Charles de Lint.

Sliding a worn copy of the Bible from one of the top shelves, 
she took a moment to recall the reference that McShane had made 
during their first conversation.  She read the passage carefully.  
It was part of a warning by God to Cain, after his sacrifice had 
failed to please his creator.  

"If you do well, will it not be lifted up? If you don't do well, 
sin crouches at the door. Its desire is for you, but you are to 
rule over it."

Monica shook her head, closing the book and replacing it on 
the shelf.  If the quote was supposed to mean something to her, 
then McShane had missed his mark for once.

"The romance novels are mine," Kirsten said from by the stairs.  
"Everything else belongs to Thomas.  You know what he says?  
That all of those things are just different versions of the 
same story.  That it's all connected.  You know what I mean?"

"Specifically?  No."  Monica turned to face this unsettling 
woman.  "But I think that I might appreciate something of the 
concept."

"Yes," Kirsten replied, and gestured towards a chair.  "Why 
don't we begin?  There is a lot we should talk about."

"I'm not even sure what questions I should ask," Monica admitted, 
taking the offered seat.  "Thomas gave us very little clue as 
to what you two might have to say."

"Oh, I know what it is he wanted me to tell you," Kirsten 
said matter-of-factly.  "It's not just about my time with him, 
of course.  Things run a bit deeper than that."  She smiled, 
looking into Monica's eyes.  "But then, you've already figured 
that out."

"You seem to be a lot more perceptive than a person would 
otherwise guess," Monica said, trying to shrug off the fear 
that was creeping across her shoulders.

Kirsten shrugged.  "If there is one thing Thomas has taught 
me, and my brother, it is to watch and observe, and see the 
things that people are really saying or thinking.  Most of 
the time, people react without realizing it.  They may think 
their expressions don't change, but they do.  Body language, 
the way the eyes move."  She laughed.  "And yes, there is more 
to it than that.  Other ways of communicating."

"Are we talking about telepathy?" Monica said, deciding that 
the direct approach might be the best way to go.

"Are we?" Kirsten countered.  "What is telepathy?  What is 
communication?  I think you might find that communication 
comes down to access of information.  The only difference 
between what we consider to be normal communication and 
abnormal communication is the means."

Monica blinked.  "I have no idea what you are trying to say."

Kirsten sighed, and then shrugged.  "I think it might be 
more clear once I explain what happened to me."

Monica smiled, more than happy to turn the conversation to 
something a bit more concrete.  "What happened to you when 
Thomas saved your life?"

Kirsten shook her head.  "Before that.  You see, long before 
I met Thomas, someone decided that I had potential."  She said 
the word like a curse.  "And all that potential was, to them, 
was a signal that someday, I would have to die."

Subject: Fic: From That Eternal Silence - Chapter Four (3/6)

"I hope it wasn't too unnerving in there," Craig said 
offhand as they walked down one of the side streets.  "Kirsten 
has a way of trying to get people to react, to expose what 
they are thinking or feeling.  And she has a tendency not to 
worry too much about whether or not people want those reactions 
to come out."

Doggett looked over his shoulder, noticing that some of the 
ravens from the yard had started to fly into the trees behind 
them, steadily moving along their path.  "I bet she's real fun 
at parties."

"Well, they're not the type for parties," Craig said with a 
laugh.  He saw the direction of Doggett's worried gaze.  
"They're not going to attack us, you know.  They're just 
keeping an eye on us."

Doggett wasn't sure that he liked having his gut suspicions 
so baldly expressed.  "Neat trick.  I get the impression that 
they've been keeping an eye on me since I got here."

"They have," Craig said with a wink.  "Not something you are 
used to hearing or thinking, is it?  You're more the straight-
shooting kind."

"So I'm told," Doggett replied.  "So you're telling me that 
these birds...what?  They're trained?"

"Not exactly," Craig said, leading them around a corner.  
"How much do you know about Native lore, the general beliefs 
of the American Indian tribes?"

Doggett shrugged.  "Not much.  Why?"

"Thomas began studying the subject about three years ago.  
In the lore of many tribes, there are certain roles that the 
various animals in nature embody.  For instance, the fox is 
the embodiment of the trickster.  Owls are the familiars for 
spirits, how they interact and move around us.  It all evolves 
out of a basic belief that there is an underlying intelligence 
in nature, something more than just instinct.  Animals have 
their ways of interacting with the bigger picture, and if you 
know how to read the signs, you can begin to understand 
the connections yourself."

Doggett smiled, shaking his head.  "Sounds like science 
fiction to me."

"It does, doesn't it?" Craig said, sharing the smile.  "I 
admit, I was a bit skeptical myself.  Not about the idea of 
spirits and all of that...what my sister went through, what 
I saw...well.  That part I knew was real.  But the idea that 
there was some underlying rationale to it all?  That part 
I couldn't quite accept."

Doggett sighed.  "OK.  For the moment, let's take this Indian 
lore business for granted.  How do the ravens fit in?"

"In the lore, ravens keep watch over the places where the 
barrier between our world and the Otherworld becomes thinned, 
making it easier for anyone on either side to cross between 
the worlds.  In most of the cases, it's some spirit or entity 
trying to cross into our world, or trying to use people 
here to grant it more power there."

He saw Doggett's expression, and laughed.  "Oh, I know, it 
sounds a bit far-fetched, but just keep in mind that we are 
talking about the lore of a people that is coming to us 
through filters.  Most of the actual knowledge is hidden 
away from the view of outsiders.  We get the stuff that is 
considered to be corrupted or just plain wrong."

"So why are you telling me this?" Doggett asked, getting 
impatient.

"Because even though that's not the way things work, it's 
actually not too far off."  Craig stopped walking for a second, 
leaning against a wooden fence.  "You ever have a dog?"

"Sure."

"Ever get the feeling that your dog was reacting to something 
long before you were aware of it?  Or how about those stories 
about dogs that go nuts, right before an earthquake?"

Doggett nodded.  "Yeah, I've heard the stories."

"Animals have an intelligence all their own, Agent Doggett.  
It's not like ours, but they are connected into nature just as 
much as we are.  And just like when we get that feeling that 
something is wrong, or those flashes of dj vu, it's a matter 
of seeing that connection and recognizing it for what it is."

"OK," Doggett agreed.  "What does that have to do with all 
that spirit business?  And how does that have anything to do 
with those kids getting killed?"

Craig resumed walking.  "If you can accept that there is a 
connection between all things in nature, then the real question 
becomes, what is the nature of that connection?  What binds 
everything with everything else?"

"The Force?" Doggett answered with a grin.

Craig laughed.  "Well, OK.  Good one.  But remember that 
Lucas based the Force on the varied mythologies and lore of 
a number of cultures around the world.  Real Joe Campbell-
type stuff.  So it's not a mistake that it sounds familiar."

He stopped again as they approached a park bench.  The river 
that cut through the town was several yards away, past the 
wooden fence.  Gesturing for Doggett to join him on the bench, 
he continued.  "Science tells us that there is a basic set of 
laws that govern everything.  Physics describes the way that 
everything interacts with everything else.  Recent advances 
in cosmology and particle physics, for instance, tell us that 
there are more dimensions than just the ones we know: length, 
width, depth, and time.

"The question is, what are these other dimensions?  And if 
we are living in a world with higher dimensions, more than 
what we can easily express, then one might wonder how things 
work in these dimensions that we know are there, but cannot 
perceive."

"This is getting a bit beyond what I remember from high school," 
Doggett confessed.  "Should I be expecting a quiz when this 
is over?"

Craig grinned.  It was his way, Doggett realized, of keeping 
things light and cordial, even under these unusual circumstances.  
"Only the most important kind.  Understand, this is not a matter 
of theory.  Science is a means of describing nature, not defining 
it.  Reality will always be something beyond points on a 
graph or equations on a page."

Doggett sighed.  "All right.  So there are these other dimensions 
described in physics. Are we getting any closer to something 
useful?"

There was that grin again.  "When you really get into it, it 
all comes down to quantum mechanics.  And the thing about 
quantum mechanics is, when you start looking at the way things 
act and react, it comes down to a bunch of things called quantum 
states.  It's kind of like a list of all the different properties 
of a particle...energy, momentum, vibration.  But the list of 
possible quantum states is infinite.

"Everything in nature, hell, everything in the universe, is 
made up of particles.  And particles are really just energy.  
Energy that can be transferred from one thing to another, one 
particle to another particle.  You, this bench, the fence, the 
water...all made of the same exact stuff.  The only thing that 
makes it different is the way the quantum states of the particles 
come together, which makes it possible to form different atoms, 
molecules, and ultimately, different materials and things.

"Here's the part that really applies to the current situation," 
Craig said, adjusting his sitting position.  "If two particles 
are created in the same process, in terms of the laws of physics 
that I mentioned before, then they will share at least one 
quantum state.  This is called entanglement.  It really just 
means that the particles are connected in a way that makes it 
as if they are the exact same particle.  You can take those 
two particles and put them as far apart as you want...if you 
change the quantum state in one particle, it instantly changes 
in the other particle that shares the same state."

"So what?"  Doggett asked, getting impatient.  "This is a nice 
science lesson, Craig, but come on?  Are you just wasting my 
time so Kirsten can tell Monica some fish story?"

"Not at all.  The reason that matters, Agent Doggett, is that 
there is this little speed limit called the speed of light.  
It says that nothing is supposed to move faster than that.  
Nothing.  So how is it that in experiment after experiment, 
if you change the quantum state in one particle, it changes 
instantly in the other, no matter how far apart they are.  
It's not just fast, it's instantaneous.  Do you see the 
difference?"

Doggett thought for a moment, and then nodded.  "If the second 
particle is reacting to the change, how does it know that the 
change happened, if that news can only travel at the speed of 
light?  Am I getting that straight?"

"That's the problem in a nutshell," Craig agreed.  "And so 
the prevailing theory is, that exchange of information is 
happening in one of those higher dimensions I mentioned 
before.  And since we have no knowledge of the laws that 
govern those dimensions, the speed of light does not apply."
Craig held up a hand when Doggett tried to interrupt.

"Now, as to why I'm even telling you this.  You see, what 
someone noticed when doing over the results of these 
experiments is that if there is an infinite number of quantum 
states, as many as there are particles in the entire universe 
and then some...then that means that every single particle is 
entangled with all the rest.  That's how it's all connected.  
It's all one big tapestry, and we are all a part of it.  
Everything, everyone."

Doggett sat still for a moment, considering the information 
to the best of his ability.  This kind of thinking was not his 
field of expertise, but he could see that it made a kind of 
sense.  There was some kind of connection between all things, 
apparently.  But that was a far cry from saying that there was 
a connection that meant anything in the everyday world.  He 
said as much.

Craig nodded.  "I agree.  Just knowing that there is some kind 
of connection doesn't say much.  But once you accept that, 
there are implications that start popping up.  Everything is 
connected, John, everything that you are, everything I am, 
everything.  And that includes whatever part of us is conscious 
and aware.  Our minds, our souls if you will...they are a part 
of this connection as well."

"Which means what?"  Doggett pressed.  "That our minds and 
souls are all connected?  Is that what I'm supposed to be 
getting out of this?"

Craig nodded.  "But since our senses are a part of this world, 
we don't catch on to that fact.  Most of us, anyway.  Some of 
us feel it, though, at a gut level."

Doggett stood.  "This is all well and good, but what does 
this have to do with these murders?"

"Ultimately, Agent Doggett, if you believe what I have told 
you, then you can see that our intelligence is part of this 
larger tapestry, something that's not rooted in our physical 
bodies.  You see, that's what I've been trying to explain 
to you.  Sometimes, something intelligent figures out how 
to go beyond the physical, whether through force of will 
or something else.

"That is what you are facing."

***

"I was about ten at the time," Kirsten said, looking into 
Monica's eyes as if to deliver the memories directly to 
her brain.  "We had heard about the murders in Clark about 
a year before, but like everyone else, we thought everything 
was safe when nothing happened after the killer was caught.  
We never questioned the fact that the killer committed 
suicide.

"It was quiet when the police chief in Clark was hired to 
take over in Cranford.  To be honest, there was no reason 
that anyone my age should have known it at the time.  I 
didn't.  I was just one of the neighborhood kids, playing 
with her friends...trusting the people in charge to be 
honest and safe."

"What neighborhood?" Monica asked quietly.

"The same one Simone Benoit's family lives in.  In fact, 
the same road, just a little farther down.  My mother 
still lives there."  She shrugged.  "I doubt she even 
understands what's happening.  We haven't had a real 
conversation in years."

Sighing, she continued.  "One day, a friend of my father's, 
a policeman, told me that all of the kids in the neighborhood 
were having a party at one of the local houses.  It was in 
the basement, because it was supposed to be a scary party.  
Like ghost stories, he said.  Chief Fremont was going 
to be there to tell the scariest story.

"When I got there, I saw most of my friends...Sara, Kevin, 
Mike, Tom Decampo.  A few others."  She turned towards the 
open floor of the living room.  "We went down the stairs 
from behind the house.  It was a one-story ranch house, 
but that was no way to get into the basement from inside.  
There were no lights, nothing but candles arranged in a 
circle around the open floor.  Inside the circle, in red, 
was a perfect triangle.  At each point, there was a small 
figurine.  It was made of hematite, if you can believe it...
that shiny black that your eyes just sort of slide off of.  
The figurine had two blue sapphires for eyes, and on each 
head was a golden crown.  It was scary, but like so many 
things when you're that young, it was too interesting to 
run away from.

"There were lots of adults there, parents of some of the 
others...not my parents, but people I had grown up trusting 
and believing in.  They were sitting just outside of the 
circle, just far enough that when they asked us...the 
children...to sit just outside of the circle, we could fit.  
Chief Fremont sat at the very center, and after some of the 
parents told some stories...they were pretty stupid when I 
think about it, actually...after that, he started speaking.

"It was like he was reaching into our heads, into our souls...
his voice was like the beating of our hearts.  He started off 
speaking normally, so we could hear him clearly.  He told us 
about a time when the people of the world had grown wicked 
and content in being evil, how they couldn't be trusted.  How 
they lied to each other, to their kids, and hurt each other.  
But then there would come a time when all of those people 
would pay, because someone would come to bring back everything 
that was good.  All the bad people would go away, forever, 
and a new world of happiness and joy would emerge.

"But before that time, he told us...and now his voice got 
just a little softer...special people would come and help 
prepare for his coming.  Special children would be born that 
would have special gifts, the ones that would have the power 
of this son of God, the ones that could help him get home 
faster.  And then he started telling us that we were very lucky 
to live in the place that we lived in, because when we had 
been born, they had seen that we were the ones that could make 
it happen.

"He went on and on, saying it over and over, telling us that 
we were the special ones, the ones with the power.  We just 
had to feel it, let it rush into us, forget the lies that said 
that we were just regular kids.  And the entire time, he just 
kept speaking more and more softly.  And so I found myself 
moving closer and closer, just so I could hear him tell me 
how special I was.

"If you had asked me before that day what color Fremont's eyes 
were, I couldn't have told you.  But as he was talking, it was 
like he was speaking only to me.  And I could see that his eyes 
were blue, almost shining like the eyes of the figurines, and 
they were looking right through me, seeing that power within.  
And as his voice became a whisper, and his eyes made it 
impossible for me to not listen or look away...that's when I 
first heard it.

"It was like something sliding around in the back of my head 
at first, like an echo of Fremont's voice.  But soon it started 
overpowering the whisper that I was hearing in my ears.  It 
was telling me to feel the power, to embrace it.  I'm not sure 
when it happened, but soon I wasn't hearing Fremont anymore, 
but this other voice in the back of my mind, chanting over and 
over again.  But Fremont's lips were still moving, so I kept 
getting closer to hear if he was saying what the voice was 
saying.

"By the time he looked away, and I realized that he was no 
longer speaking, I looked around and saw that all of us were 
sitting in the circle, surrounding him.  I looked at the others, 
trying to ignore the voice that was still whispering in my 
thoughts, and I noticed that something was different.  No 
matter how it had been before, now I noticed that all of 
their eyes were the same blue as Fremont's had been.

"And I knew, in that moment, that my eyes were exactly the 
same."