From entil2001@yahoo.com Wed Jan  9 20:45:41 2002
Date: 16 Dec 2001 09:53:28 -0800
From: Entilzha <entil2001@yahoo.com>
Subject: Fic: From That Eternal Silence - Chapter Seven (1/2)

CHAPTER SEVEN

November 30, 2000

6:59 PM

Clark, NJ

Nearly an hour had passed since McShane had arrived at the 
hotel, bleeding and soaked to the bone.  After Monica had 
helped tend to his wounds, he had walked over to the table, 
pulled a chair towards the wall where the map had been hung, 
and began staring at the pattern of roads as though some 
hidden meaning might make itself known.

And it was frustrating the hell out of Doggett.

Craig had left the room soon time ago, suggesting that he 
might be able to see how extensively the local roads were 
being detoured based on the patterns of traffic around the 
hotel.  Something told him that it had just been an excuse, 
a way for McShane to get some time to recover and consider 
their options.  On the other hand, Monica was taking an 
inventory of the weapons at their disposal.  Just in the 
room alone, they had three guns, several knives that McShane 
had managed to recover from the evidence locker, and the 
Ka-Bar blades that Craig had been carrying during their visit 
to Suicide.

"We ought to have more in the car," Monica said suddenly, 
grabbing her jacket.  "I'll go check."

"Hold on," Doggett said, walking towards the door with her.  
"It's a rental.  When would we have left weapons in the car?"

"I'm just checking," Monica said with a smile, walking out 
the door without another word.

Doggett stared after her, and then shook his head, unable 
to understand why everyone was acting so calmly.  A quick 
glance at the clock confirmed that they had less than five 
hours until midnight, and he'd bet good money that the final 
ritual would be started long before the deadline.

"There any reason why we're just sitting around waiting?" 
Doggett asked suddenly, his patience at an end.  He turned 
to McShane.  "I thought we were in a hurry."

"To do what?" McShane replied, his eyes still scanning 
the map.  "I know what we have to do, and there is a time 
for it.  Acting now might give us more time to stop them, 
but it also gives them more time to stop us."

"They already know where we are," Doggett argued.  "If 
they wanted to stop us, they could have taken the fight 
here."

"Why would they do that?" McShane asked, finally turning 
away from the wall.  "So long as we are here, they have 
no reason to act.  We remain contained.  And at this point, 
inaction suits its purposes far more effectively than 
action."

Doggett laughed, a sharp and caustic sound.  "This is 
ridiculous.  We don't even know what's going to happen.  
And here you are, acting like it's no big deal.  I thought 
you said you knew what to do.  Then why aren't we doing 
anything, damn it?"

McShane hesitated for a moment, as if considering his 
response, and then nodded to himself.  "Are you under the 
impression that I'm going to allow this ritual to come to 
its conclusion?  That I'm going to fail to give everything 
I have to end the cycle of degradation and pain?"

He took a step towards Doggett.  "If that is what you are 
thinking, Agent Doggett, that I could allow these things to 
happen without a fight, then you have a very interesting 
and low opinion of me.  Because in order to let these things 
happen, on the faint possibility that I might manage 
to survive what would follow, I would have to ignore the 
reality of what is about to happen."  He looked into Doggett's 
eyes, searching for something specific, it seemed.  "Who 
matters to you, John?  Not among the passed, but among the 
living.  Consider who truly matters to you."

He might have thought that his thoughts would turn to his 
remaining family, or his friends at the Bureau, even Agent 
Scully or Monica.  But much to his surprise, perhaps in 
response to some undercurrent in the way that McShane 
had asked the question, he found himself thinking of the 
woman he had met recently, the woman with the raven-black 
hair and the eyes so similar to the ones boring into him now.  
A woman who had shown him something equally profound that he 
could not explain or understand, but that he could not deny.

McShane continued, his voice softer.  "Think of her as you 
last saw her, the strength that had taken root again.  The 
energy that simply flowed around her, within her, strengthening 
you with its simplicity in return.  The way her eyes looked 
into yours, everything that you saw there...understanding, 
interest, but above all, hope.

"Think of the moment when they come for her.  Maybe it will 
be in her home, late at night when she is sleeping peacefully, 
unaware.  Maybe it will be as she walks out of a building, 
or down the street.  Maybe she'll feel it coming, and she'll 
be waiting in terror, waiting for the moment when they burst 
into the door and grab her by the throat, pinning her arms 
to the small of her back.  Throwing her to the ground, roughly 
binding her hands, covering her eyes, gagging her mouth.

"Perhaps she'll be lucky, and they will be short on time.  
Or maybe they'll have enough time to rip open her clothes, 
run their hands down and over her skin, take what they wish 
while she is unable to struggle.  But she'll wonder all of 
that time, whether left to her own devices or as they use 
her for sport, how long it will be until the end comes.

"They'll pull her to her feet, eyes still covered, mouth still 
gagged, and tear off whatever clothes she still might be 
wearing.  They will drag her naked and exposed into a clearing, 
pushing her to her knees.  Once there, they will take a blade, 
perhaps two to three inches long, and slice symbols into the 
flesh of her back.  And then the one that demands this be done 
will call out and draw down energies that her body cannot 
contain or control.

"Her flesh will begin to sear and crack as it burns from the 
inside out, charring and crisping.  And all the while, as it 
spreads to her arms, her legs, her face...she will be alive 
and conscious, feeling every last measure of agony without 
mercy.  Then the flesh will begin to shear off in chunks 
from her bones, until the moment that her mutilated and 
abused body can no longer function to keep her alive.  And 
then, Agent Doggett, only then will she be allowed to die."

McShane paused, pulling Doggett back to the present.  Doggett 
found himself shaking ever so slightly, a deep pain and tension 
in the core of his being.

"You would not allow that to happen to her, would you, John?"  
McShane asked, and Doggett shook his head, unable to speak.  
"But if this ritual is allowed to happen, if our enemy is 
allowed to spread its influence even farther, then that is 
exactly what will happen.  And it is exactly what they plan 
to do to the woman I love, and the mother of my child."

McShane turned, and pointed to the map.  "I have been 
considering the best route that we might take to the site 
of the ritual, avoiding as many of the patrols that they 
are likely to have out on the streets.  Encountering them 
is inevitable.  But we might be able to choose the time and 
the place."

Sighing, McShane turned back to Doggett.  "As I said.  Acting 
too quickly ends any chance we have of stopping those things 
from happening."

Doggett cleared his throat, forced the words from his mouth.  
"If we can't stop them until they take Kirsten to the ritual 
site, then you know...they could be..."

"No," McShane said calmly, but even so, Doggett could now 
see the conflict behind those eyes.  "As I said, time is a 
factor.  And as soon as they attempted to abuse her in those 
ways, she would no longer react with the fear that it needs 
her to feel."  He shrugged.  "It used her like that for years.  
The one thing she never could accept was the cold and 
calculated indifference.  And so that is how it will regard 
her until the time is right."

"You'll still be cutting it close," Doggett observed, trying 
to calm himself down, forget the images that had flashed into 
his mind moments before.

McShane nodded.  "The key is getting there as she is being 
brought to the site, or shortly after.  The wounds on her back, 
should she receive them, would heal in time.  Again, she 
endured worse during the years under its control.  But we 
must get to her before the energies are drawn into her.  That 
kind of damage, even the best and talented healers would 
be unlikely to heal."

McShane walked over to the map, traced a route carefully.  
"We will leave within the hour.  We should be able to cross 
the abandoned grounds that stretch from this nearby intersection 
with Raritan Road to the opposing side near Lexington.  The 
wide open expanse is the kind of terrain they want to avoid.  
It's the route from Lexington to the ritual site on the other 
side of the river that will be the deciding factor."

A noise at the door announced Monica's return.  Her typically 
shaggy black hair was now soaked through.  "All done?"

McShane nodded, and Doggett turned to Monica with a scowl.  
"You knew what was going to happen?"

"Didn't take a psychic to figure it out," she countered.  
"Why would we have left weapons in the car?"  She grinned.  
"You were practically pacing a rut into the floor, and if 
looks could kill, Thomas would have been a pile of ash."  
She saw Doggett pale, and her bemused expression shifted to 
one of concern.  "What is it?"

"Nothing," Doggett muttered, turning away.  "Did you happen 
to see Craig?" 

"He's on his way," Thomas said before Monica could answer.  
"When he gets here, we will go over the rest of the route I 
think we should take.  And there is one last thing we should 
discuss.  Something we might have to deal with."

McShane returned to the map, as if checking over his decisions.  
Doggett took Monica by the arm, pulling her to one side.

"What is it?" she repeated.

"I can buy the fact that you could tell that I was beginning 
to lose my patience with Thomas, but I get the feeling there 
was more to it."

Monica hesitated, looking past him towards Thomas, and then 
nodded.  "I was getting a very strong feeling that I should 
leave the room.  Just enough to know that if he wanted to, he 
could have gotten me to leave without knowing he was behind it."

"What are you saying?" Doggett pressed.

"On the whole, he's being straight with us," Monica said, 
lowering her voice.  "But I think that it's because he truly 
believes he's going to need us, and so he tells us what he 
thinks we need to know."

"So you think he's hiding something," Doggett said, his tone 
making it clear that he believed it as well.

"Since day one, he's controlled the amount of information 
we have," Monica reminded him.  "You said it yourself.  As 
much as he might find it offensive that this thing is 
manipulating people, he's doing the exact same thing."

"You said he needs us," Doggett mused.  "What do you think 
he needs us for?"

"I couldn't say," Monica admitted.  "But I think I'm involved 
because he thought I could help you see what was happening 
here, make it more acceptable to you.  And so I think when 
push comes to shove, you're the one he's counting on."

"But how?" Doggett said, his impatience returning.  "They're 
the ones with all the abilities and gifts or whatever you 
want to call it.  What do they need me for?"

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

7:24 PM

"So far, we have been dealing with the physical side of 
the equation," McShane began.  "Most of the actions that 
have been taken have been through the actions of those it 
controls.  The police, the cultists.  Very little that you 
have seen has been the result of the actual enemy engaging 
us on a personal, direct level."

Doggett, Monica, and Craig were sitting by the table, 
listening intently.  Doggett was still a bit impatient, but 
he knew that they would be taking action as soon as this 
last matter was attended to.

"As you know, the enemy is a pure intelligence that has 
been pulled into the physical world," McShane continued.  
"Its basic and fundamental existence required the manipulation 
of energy. That is what it knows, how it lives.  It is a 
matter of instinct, something that is so basic that it does 
not consider how it does so.  Just as we do not consciously 
consider or control the way that our cells operate.

"Because of that, it understands how to manipulate and 
control others like itself, the basic intelligences of the 
humans around us.  It can crudely control biological systems 
once it learns the way its energies specifically ebb and flow.  
But so far as a direct application or redirection of energy 
to control or affect matter goes, it is limited.

"In the same way, it is easier for the enemy to enter a body 
and take control, because the linkages between the host 
intelligence and the host body are already there for it to 
duplicate.  Creating a form of its own is far more difficult.  
In the last nine years, Craig and I have only seen it attempt 
this strategy twice."

McShane pointed to the Willow Farm development on the map.  
"The first time was within days after I rescued Kirsten from 
being killed in the '91 ritual.  I had just been released 
from jail, and I was staying with Kirsten while she recovered 
from the trauma of being separated from the entity.

"Late that night, as she lay sleeping, I found myself unable 
to sleep or rest.  I could feel the swirling of energy in 
the room around us, as if something were watching us, trying 
to determine what had happened.  For a time it kept me 
unaware of its exact nature, keeping itself elusive.  But 
then, not far from the edge of the bed, I could see something 
coalescing, forming in the air.

"Being a creature of sentient energy, living without material 
form, it can exist spread out over untold space or compressed 
into the sparest of spaces.  In the same way, it began forming 
itself into a shape in the room.  But instead of defining 
itself by its presence, I could only get a sense of it by 
looking just to one side, letting its apparent absence define 
its location for my senses.

"Our physical brains and senses have no means of interpreting 
those signals and energies, and so it appeared as a kind of 
column of shimmering air, like heat convecting over the highway 
in the noonday sun, radiating the concept of appearing to be 
human rather than physically looking human.  As difficult as 
that is to describe, there was no question in my mind that 
I was looking at the very thing that had attempted to kill 
me nine years before, and had attempted to kill Kirsten 
Walden.

"Primitively, crudely, it began reaching out, trying to 
determine how I was keeping it from entering her mind again, 
or what else I might be able to do.  Just the effort of 
appearing in that kind of form, manifesting as it was, 
required the use of massive resources.  And so it was an 
easy thing to push back, to put it on the defensive.  I 
tried to strike at its core, since it had been foolish enough 
to center it right there within my grasp.

"It escaped.  But only because it used the last of its 
available power to do something that I could not anticipate."

"Did either of you notice anything peculiar in Unami?" Craig 
asked, looking at Doggett and Monica.

"Yeah," Doggett admitted.  "When we got into the ritual 
site itself, the trees seemed to close up, and we couldn't 
see out into the local area."

"Even though we could see straight through the trees to 
begin with," Monica added.

"I almost had it," McShane resumed, "but then the next 
thing I know, it was completely gone without a trace, and 
the clock read an hour before it had first appeared."

"It did what?" Doggett said, straightening.  "Are you trying 
to tell me this thing did something with time?"

"This is a being of energy, regardless of however else you 
want to put it," Craig reminded them.  "Energy that can 
appear and reappear wherever it likes, because it's natural 
state is as a non-localized phenomenon.  It's natural state 
is apart from the physical laws we know."  He pointed to 
Doggett.  "Remember what I told you a couple days ago?  
That time is just another dimension, same as length or 
width?"

"Understand, this was still not something so simple," McShane 
added quickly.  "It was a move of last resort, and the fact 
that I was able to set up myself in the area soon after 
suggests that it was left largely weakened for some time 
afterward."

"You said there were two instances," Doggett reminded him.

"It happened about two years later, when some of Craig's 
immediate friends began to experience problems with some 
of the people under its influence," McShane answered.

"It was a bad time," Craig said, his usual grin nowhere to 
be seen.  "I don't think I've ever had many close friends 
since then, besides homas."

"We were out late at night, having been called to a house 
close to the center of town.  It turned out to be a ruse, 
and we discovered belatedly that the target was being taken 
to that house to be...re-educated."

"Like Kirsten had been," Monica guessed.

"Likely," McShane replied.  "We started moving quickly 
towards the direction of the house, avoiding the police 
patrols that were inevitably out that night.  We came to 
one stretch of road, leading directly towards the house, 
and found that most of the streetlights had gone out, 
leaving most of the street in shadow.  Craig was the 
first to notice them."

"It was as if the shadows themselves were alive, in the 
shapes of some sort of animal," Craig continued.  "Like the 
figure that Thomas saw that night in '91, these creatures 
or forms were more easily seen or sensed by what was unseen, 
rather than what we could see when directly looking at 
them."

"Apparently it had learned how to create small, fluid ways 
to act on the physical world," McShane resumed.  "The fact 
that they were constantly in motion made them easier to 
control and manipulate.  It was not that it had learned to 
control itself better, but rather, it learned how to work 
within the bounds of its own limitations."

Craig indicated the spot on the map that they had been 
talking about.  "The police under its control had been 
carefully pushing us towards this area, the few roads 
between the house and the location we had been fooled 
into checking.  The idea had been to either contain us 
in the area where we could be arrested and kept from 
interfering, or to push us right into its teeth."

"Getting detained was not an option," McShane said with 
conviction.  "And so we decided that we would have to 
attempt to make our way through those shadows."

"We searched for a way to move that would keep us within 
the light, where it would have more difficulty coming at 
us with the shadow forms," Craig explained.  "Within the 
dark, it could maintain enough shape just long enough to 
get to us.  But in the light, it would have to become more 
corporeal, which would weaken it too much to effectively 
strike."

"But soon it became obvious that the areas that were lit 
were too small and too far apart to provide a practical 
defense," McShane said.  "With time running out, I had to 
act in the only way that I could think of.  I called on 
some of the greater forces that I had learned to trust and 
believe in.  Call it what you will.  I consider it to be 
the Mother Goddess, the guiding intelligence that watches 
us all."

"Kirsten said something about that," Doggett said, 
remembering that part of Monica's summary of their 
conversation.  "How that was supposed to explain the 
ravens.  How that's the living symbol of the Goddess, 
something 'out there' that you consider to be your 
benefactor."

"Of course," Monica whispered.  "The Morrigan.  In Celtic 
lore, she was the incarnation of the warrior maiden, a 
symbol of death."

"More correctly, the appearance of the raven marked the 
nearness of one's spirit to the Otherworld, marking an 
awareness of an impending time of death, or crossing 
into the next life, existence as a pure intelligence."  
McShane shrugged.  "It's a matter of distinction.  One 
way or another, I called on that guiding force, drew in 
as much energy as I could to push those shadow forms 
away from our path."

"It worked," Craig said, his grin returning.  "I could 
feel something radiating from him, and his eyes were 
practically shining in the night.  All around us, as we 
started to walk down that road, those shadows started to 
waver and disappear, melting back into the real shadows 
like they had never existed."

"I don't remember it very well," McShane admitted.  "But 
an hour later, I was leaning against one of the walls in 
that basement, and Craig was telling me that not only had 
his friend escaped relatively unharmed, but the enemy had 
been just as weakened in the process."

"Thomas was bedridden for a couple weeks after that," Craig 
said with a sigh.  "But that was the last major attempt to 
act against us until recently."

"The rest of the time was spent playing a kind of chess game 
in the process of trying to beat us to finding the location 
of the gate," McShane said with a kind of finality.  "After 
that night, even if I had been weakened for a short while, 
I was also more in touch with what I could do, what I am."

Doggett caught a slight reaction to that from Craig, and 
looking at Monica, he saw that she had noticed it as well.  
"Why are you telling is this?" he asked.

McShane looked him in the eye.  "John, this is the endgame, 
as far as the enemy is concerned.  If it completes this 
ritual, it gains enough power to perpetuate the process and 
continue to draw in more and more power, until it will begin 
to control greater and greater numbers of people.  If it 
wins, it will be far more powerful than even a dozen of 
my kind."

Doggett knew that he was referring to the 'sentinels' or 
'gatekeepers'.  More powerful than even a dozen McShanes?  
"And if we stop it?"

"Then I can force it back through the gate, where it can be 
contained by others like itself," McShane replied, as if it 
were obvious.  "The commonality of life will subsume it as 
needed, to make sure that the madness cannot spread to others.  
The people under its control will regain as much control 
over themselves as can be restored at this point.  Some might 
be left mentally and spiritually crippled, but in time, I 
should be able to make certain that the rituals will not 
be repeated."

"I'm still a bit confused by this idea of an infinite 
commonality made of all intelligent life, and how it can 
operate in the ways you suggest," Monica said, "but I will 
say that it makes a certain amount of sense, in terms of 
a gut feeling.  If it wins, it gets the upper hand for 
good, and we're all dead.  If we win, we basically send 
it to 'spirit jail'."

"Close enough," McShane said with a smirk.

"So the point is, this thing has nothing left to lose," 
Doggett reasoned.  "As far as a little extra effort goes, 
now is the time to do it."  He looked to Monica, and then 
to Craig.  "As soon as we leave, it's going to know we're 
coming.  It's going to do exactly what it did before, using 
those shadow things to either keep us pinned down or take 
us out."

"And it knows what defeating that particular trap would 
do to me," McShane said, confirming Doggett's analysis.  
"It would be weakened, but it would leave itself enough 
strength to control Fell and the others for completing 
the ritual.  But I would be taken out of the fight in 
all the ways that really matter."

"Then how would we be able to stop them?" Monica wondered.

"I wasn't lying when I told John that I was going to put 
my life on the line to stop the enemy," McShane said calmly.  
"I will do what I can, even if it means that I might be 
left crippled in return when all is said and done.  I will 
be there to work against them on their own level.  But my 
actions will be limited."

He pointed to the route he had indicated before.  "Again, 
we should be able to get across this open space without 
much difficulty.  It's going to be the stretch from where 
we pick up Lexington to get across the river that will be 
the part that we should worry about."

He stopped for a moment, as if listening to something faint 
in the distance, and then nodded.  "It's time.  They will 
be moving Kirsten to the site very soon.  We need to move 
now if we intend to get there at the proper time."

"About time," Doggett muttered, rising to his feet.  "One 
thing I want to make clear first.  I know that we are going 
to have to defend ourselves.  But for our part, as federal 
agents, I have to insist that we try to keep this as clean 
as possible.  We don't kill anyone unless it is absolutely 
necessary."

"Of course," Craig agreed.  McShane seemed to hesitate for 
a moment, but also nodded.

"I will meet you down in the lobby," McShane said, making 
for the door.  "I have some things I need to attend to.  
And I would like to see my daughter...it may be the last 
time."

"Is that wise?" Doggett asked, thinking of the child's 
welfare.  "Do you really want her to see you, the way you 
look right now?"

McShane looked down at his blood-stained clothes, at the 
weapons barely concealed under his leather jacket.  "I 
can't do anything about the way I look, John.  But I haven't 
seen her or held her for days, and if this ends badly..."

Doggett left it at that, and walked over to his bed.  
Monica joined him, pulling out her weapon from her shoulder 
holster, making sure the clip was full.  As soon as McShane 
was out the door, she looked over her shoulder to make sure 
Craig was distracted with his own preparations, then turned 
to Doggett.

"He wasn't being completely honest," she whispered.

"I know," Doggett replied, just as softly.  "If he's going 
to be taken out of the fight, then he expects to win in 
another way."

"I hate to say it, but I still think he has something in 
mind for you," Monica repeated.  "And given what he's up 
against..."

"Yeah, I know what you mean," Doggett admitted.  "But the 
way I see it, we don't have much choice.  However you want 
to look at it, the threat is real.  Even if this is just 
a matter of a death cult led by the local police, there 
are lives at risk.  It's our duty to make sure this is 
ended."

"But it's not just a matter of a death cult, John, and the 
way you've been talking and acting since last night, I think 
you understand that," Monica reminded him.  "Whatever it is 
Thomas has in mind, you are at the center of it."

"I don't understand this at all," Doggett said honestly.  
"I'm going on instinct, and yeah, my gut's telling me that 
there's more to this than some simple cult.  But I still 
don't know for certain.  I'm still trying to work it out.  
In the meantime, there are some people out there trying 
to kill Kirsten Walden, and if they get that far, we're 
next."

Monica hesitated, as if considering her words, and then 
sighed.  "Just don't underestimate the possible threat 
here, John."  She looked over her shoulder again.  Craig 
was sliding one of the Ka-Bars onto his belt.  "I don't 
think we're the only ones doubting full confidence in Mr. 
McShane."

Doggett nodded, and then turned to Craig, casually checking 
his own weapon in the process.  "Back when Thomas mentioned 
that he was left more in touch with what he could do...that 
seemed to make you uncomfortable.  You mind telling us why?"

Craig pretended to be checking the edge of one of his knives.  
"What do you mean?"

"Was he different after that?" Monica added next to Doggett.  
"More detached?"

Craig stopped his ruse, lowering the blade from his gaze, 
sighing as he slid it into its sheath.  "Yeah, you could say 
that.  Before that, he was dedicated to keeping us safe, to 
finding the gate and trying to teach me a few things, but 
after...after that night, when he was back on his feet?  Not 
the same person, not exactly.  He pushed a lot harder for me 
to try to learn as much as I could.  First the science of it 
all...the physics, the quantum mechanics, all of that.  
Recently, it's been the stranger stuff, how to influence 
people, how to tune into that level of connection with others 
and the world around us."

He turned towards them, flashing them a typical grin, but 
it was unconvincing.  "Sometimes I wonder why he was doing it.  
Sometimes I think that he took advantage of the way my old 
friends avoided me after that summer, took advantage of my 
inevitable feelings of isolation.  And I start thinking of 
what kind of father he's going to be for Rhiannon, whether 
he's going to try to push her to learn the same things, to 
keep people at a distance like we have."

He shook his head, looking towards the window.  The rain 
was not coming down quite as hard, but they would still be 
soaked and chilled to the bone within minutes of leaving 
the hotel.  "Don't get me wrong.  I've never seen him be 
anything but a loving father, and Kirsten's never had any 
complaints.  But sometimes I wonder what it might have been 
like, you know?  What I might have done if things in the 
world were a little different."  He let out a deep sigh, 
resumed his weapons check.

"And I worry, just a little, about what is going to happen, 
what's he's going to be like, if we actually manage to win."

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

****

CHAPTER EIGHT

November 30, 2001

8:15 PM

Clark, NJ

The rain was ripping sideways across the barren intersection, 
sending sheets of water drenching against their legs as they 
ran towards the open field.  The traffic had been diverted 
from the area to the nearby Parkway, with a construction 
crew dubiously blocking the off-ramp next to the hotel.  
There were no police visibly maintaining the detour, and yet 
Doggett never saw anyone attempting to circumvent the cones 
and wooden barriers.

Already aware of how confining the usual suit and tie would 
be in the pouring rain, he had decided to dress more casually, 
wearing an old black leather jacket over a tight navy blue 
button-down shirt.  His black pants were already soaked 
through, but the material clung to his form in a way that 
allowed him to move freely.  The jacket was resilient enough 
to keep him moderately dry, but the cold was still cutting 
through him without relief.  A quick glance at Monica, just 
to his right, revealed that her own leather jacket was doing 
little to keep her blouse from clinging to her body.  In 
better times, it might have been worth a moment's friendly 
banter, an exchange of comments.  But now was hardly such 
a time.

McShane was sticking close to Monica, leading the way.  
Craig ran just behind Doggett, making sure that they would 
remain pointed in the right direction, should the storm grow 
any stronger.  For the moment, it was hardly necessary, but 
the field was quickly coming to an end, and the two younger 
men were the only ones familiar with the area.

About fifty yards from the end of the field, where a broken 
fence bordered a pair of familiar railroad tracks, McShane 
held up a hand, pointing to the end of a road across the 
way.  He waved the others close, and they knelt to the 
ground, close together, huddled against the rain.

"The way to the river is clear," McShane said quickly, 
pointing roughly to the northwest.  "There are two ways 
we can go.  The easiest and most predictable route is going 
to be to cut down to Lexington, and cut over to Lincoln.  
Or we can take the chance that they are expecting us to 
take that way, and walk the tracks to Walnut."

"Walnut's one of the bigger roads," Craig explained before 
Doggett could ask.  "Better chance of getting caught by 
a patrol."

"But I have the feeling that they would be expecting us 
to make that assumption," McShane continued.  "Leave the 
larger road less protected, in the hopes of hitting us 
with larger numbers on Lexington."

"More chance of getting a stray car along the bigger 
roads," Craig pointed out.  "Much less chance of that on 
Lexington, and the locals there are likely to be under its 
influence."

Doggett looked over his shoulder, and then pointed up the 
tracks.  "This is the way we took to Suicide?"

"Yeah," Craig confirmed.  "Why?"

Doggett looked towards Monica, and then shrugged.  "Wouldn't 
they expect us to avoid anyplace we know they might gather?"

"Maybe not tonight, with the ritual already started," Monica 
answered.  "But to be honest, I think you're all right.  I 
get the impression that the right way to go is down the tracks 
to Walnut, and cut towards the river along the larger, more 
exposed road."  She tried to put it into words, and then shook 
her head.  "Seems lighter somehow, if that's the word for it."

"As good a word as any," McShane said with a nod.  He looked 
at Doggett for a moment, as if he intended to ask a question, 
and then decided against it.  "Then we're agreed.  Walnut."  
He pointed to Craig and Doggett.  "I'll take the lead with 
Monica.  You two should follow up a short distance behind.  
Keep your eye out for any patrols that might try to flank 
us."

Without another word, he tapped Monica on the shoulder and 
started up the tracks.  Monica gave Doggett a slightly worried 
look, and then followed McShane as closely as possible, leaving 
the others to wait a few moments before taking up position.

"I don't like this," Doggett said as soon as Monica was out 
of earshot.  "Thomas never said anything about changing the 
route, or splitting up."

"He knows what he's doing," Craig said confidently, or at 
least as confidently as possible, given the situation.  "He 
always knows."

"Yeah, I've noticed that," Doggett said as they stood, then 
walked slowly, keeping the others in sight.  "Like how he 
knew what they had in mind with Simone Benoit?  Or the rest?  
Funny how he got that wrong.  Or was he always planning to 
pull innocents into this?"

Craig hesitated, and then sighed.  "Is this about what I 
said before?  In the hotel?  Because that doesn't change the 
fact that he's right."

"Oh, it doesn't?" Doggett snapped back.  "You said it yourself.  
He's not quite operating on the same wavelength as the rest 
of us, so how can you tell me why he does what he does?  He's 
been stringing me and Agent Reyes along since I got here, 
giving us only what he thinks we need to know.  How can you 
be sure he's doing the same with you?"

"Now isn't the time for this," Craig replied harshly.  "Thomas 
knows what he's doing.  Let's just do what we have to do, 
all right?"  He started walking faster, forcing Doggett to 
follow, ending the conversation.  

But Doggett had already gotten the answer he needed.

***

8:49 PM

Cranford, NJ

Monica looked back over her shoulder, just to be sure that 
John and Craig were still within sight through the driving 
rain.  As much as she was trying to keep her own misgivings 
in check, she could feel the tension that was building between 
John and McShane.  It had always been there, since the moment 
that John had started dealing with the mysterious suspect, 
but things were getting much worse now that the moment of 
truth had arrived.

If McShane was concerned by the growing tension, he seemed 
not to care.  In fact, he seemed to feed on that distrust, 
cultivating it slowly but surely.  Part of the problem was 
the growing realization that McShane might have known more 
than he was letting on, even from the very beginning.  And 
if that were true, then several people were now dead because 
McShane had chosen not to act until he was good and ready.

Why, then, should they trust his motives now?

"The bridge over Walnut is not far now," McShane said, 
suddenly at her side and breaking her concentration.  "We'll 
want to come down on the side opposite from Lincoln."

Monica nodded, and then asked, "Why didn't you tell Craig 
about where the gate was?  Really?"

McShane did not even hesitate, answering as they walked 
swiftly towards a gap in the trees.  "The gate is mine to 
protect.  This was the time we knew to worry over, this month, 
this year.  The less people who knew about it, the less chance 
it might wind up in the wrong hands."

"But it did anyway," Monica observed.  "If what you say about 
this thing is true, then why would it have had trouble finding 
the gate in the first place?  Wouldn't it recognize the 
energies involved, since it is energy in the first place?"

"Are you doubting my sincerity, Agent Reyes?" McShane asked 
calmly, stepping down by the side of the bridge, looking up 
at her with those piercing green eyes.  "If so, why are you 
here?"

"It's not your sincerity I'm doubting, Thomas," Monica 
replied, taking his offered hand as she stepped down as 
well.  "It's your motives."

McShane smiled, an odd reaction given the circumstances.  
"As I told your partner, I am more than willing to make 
whatever sacrifices I must to end this."

"Like Simone Benoit?  Or Theresa McMillan?"  Monica asked, 
her voice becoming more harsh.  Her worst suspicions were 
becoming more and more likely with every response.  "How 
about Kirsten, Thomas?  Or Rhiannon?  What kinds of sacrifices 
are you willing to accept?  How many more?"  She looked 
back at John and Craig.  "One of them?  How about all three 
of us?"

"I can assure you that it was never my plan to place Kirsten 
in this position," McShane snapped back.  "Preventing my own 
death at the police station would have broken the cycle.  
Davis was an accident."

"But the rest wasn't?" Monica pressed, noting how that had 
been avoided.  "I've been thinking about these abilities of 
yours, the way you can apparently communicate with people 
at a distance, see what they see, know what they are 
thinking."  They stopped just behind the bridge, while 
McShane checked for any sign of trouble.

"There is a point, I hope?" McShane replied, his calm 
returning.

"How hard would it be for you to take those abilities and 
manipulate a person's reactions, when you can look into 
their mind and see how they would react to what you might 
say or do?  Like the way Craig manipulated those people at 
the hotel to protect Rhiannon.  How would someone know that 
you were being honest, when you know without a doubt which 
lie you need to tell them, whenever it suits your purpose?"

McShane looked under the bridge a final time, and then 
turned to her.  "What interesting thoughts you have, Monica."  
He looked into her eyes, his expression serious.  "Tell me, 
do you think John is thinking about any of this?  Having 
the same doubts?"

"I'd bet he's even more doubtful," Monica said with a nod.  
"Considering that he's still trying to figure out if he 
believes any of this in the first place."

To her surprise, McShane's face broke into a wide smile.  
"Good."

And with that, he jumped to the street, leaving her even 
more concerned over what McShane had planned for her friend.

***

Less than fifteen minutes later, Doggett and Craig were 
standing in the same spot.  McShane and Monica had paused 
within the shadows of a house less than a block up the road.  
So far, there had been no sign of patrols in the area, and 
most of the houses were already darkened, as if some 
undercurrent of weariness had settled in, driving the local 
population into slumber.

All of Doggett's instincts, well honed from his time in the 
Corps, told him that things were just a little too quiet.

"Something's wrong," Doggett whispered.  "They've been in that 
position too long."

"There's an open space not far up the road, a school ground," 
Craig noted.  "They are almost directly across from it.  
There should be a lot of light coming from there, but I 
don't see it."

Doggett recognized the pattern instantly.  "This is exactly 
what Thomas was telling us about.  It's like that time when 
you were trying to get out of the center of town, isn't it?  
I thought Thomas said the way was clear."

"It appears to be," Craig observed.  He pointed a bit further 
up the road.  "From the school, it's about a block to the 
intersection with Lincoln, and the river is not far from the 
intersection.  The location of the ritual is a short walk 
along the river to where the creek used to flow into it.  
A couple blocks, at the most."

"Makes sense that there would be trouble once we cross the 
river," Doggett noted.  "Thomas got the feeling that they 
had the other way to that intersection locked down.  If I 
was going to set a trap, then the space between the two 
forces would be the place."

"Right there, then," Craig said, seeing the problem.  "But 
why would Thomas have brought us along this route, if he 
knew that it was a trap?"

"Good question," Doggett muttered.  Seeing the look on 
Craig's face, he relented slightly.  "The way he was talking, 
he knew that we would run into something like this.  Maybe 
he thought that he could handle the trap if he knew that it 
was there in the first place.  I don't know.  But if this 
situation is anything like what he described, then we need 
to stop playing games and make for the river.  Because 
Thomas said it himself...he's out of the fight if we run 
into those things you two told us about."

Craig seemed to agree, but hesitated for a moment, lost in 
thought.  "This makes no sense.  Why would he have us split 
up like that, if he knew what we were going to run into here?"

"Maybe he wanted the chance to talk with Monica alone," 
Doggett guessed.

"But why?"  Craig demanded.  "Part of the plan?"

"I don't know," Doggett admitted.  "But I have to say, if 
this is all part of his plan...well, frankly, I think it 
stinks."

***

"Something's out there," McShane said, pointing in the 
direction of the intersection.

Monica looked closely, but most of the streetlights were 
out, and the wind had begun to swirl the rain into a frenzy.  
"I don't see anything."

"We need to get out of the shadows," McShane said abruptly, 
grabbing her by the arm.  "The others are coming.  They know 
it's a trap."

Monica started to protest, but she thought it better to 
remain calm and go along with whatever McShane had in mind.  
They ran back in the direction they came, stopping under 
the nearest patch light.  They were exposed now, but then 
again, if circumstances were as bad as they seemed, it 
wouldn'tmake much of a difference.  Within seconds, John 
and Craig were standing under the light as well, John's 
scowl complemented by Craig's expression of barely concealed 
worry and confusion.

"Let me guess," John said, his voice full of derision.  
"Plan B?"

"Same plan, but not what I was hoping for," McShane replied, 
but now Monica could tell that it a lie.  For a split-second, 
she felt a rush of triumph, and then she realized that it 
was just as possible that McShane wanted them to notice.

"And what would that have been?" John pressed, but Craig 
stepped in, stopping the confrontation.

"The river," the younger man demanded.  "We're running 
out of time."

"Yes, we are," McShane emphasized.

That, at least, seemed more heartfelt, Monica mused.  
"What exactly are we dealing with?"

McShane pointed up the road.  "Try not to look for them 
directly.  Look just to one side, or let your eyes slip out 
of focus.  You'll see the movements...they will be more 
deliberate than the random motions of the trees and rain."

Monica looked towards the intersection, letting her eyes 
fall on one of the lights in the background, then looking 
just to the right of it.  At first there was nothing for 
her to see, just the normal flickering of the light from 
the rain cascading from the sky.  It felt foolish, standing 
soaked and chilled to the bone in the pouring rain, staring 
at nothing.

But then she saw it.  Or rather, she saw something move, a 
repositioning of something closer to her than the light.  
Her eyes immediately focused on the spot where the movement 
had been, as if hoping to catch the next motion in the act, 
but there was nothing but dark and shadow.  Taking a quick 
glance at the space, she saw that it was close to one of 
the buildings just beyond the school, under a tight pattern 
of trees and houses that lined that stretch of the road.

Blinking her eyes, she turned towards John, and saw that 
he was peering at something on the other side of the street.  
The skeptical look on his face remained, so she was certain 
that he had not seen anything.  But just as she was about 
to say something to him, to tell him what she thought she 
had seen, his eyes flickered and went wide.

"Son of a bitch," he whispered, and he pointed directly at 
the center of the intersection.

Monica followed his gaze, and just before her eyes focused 
on the patch of light below the wildly swinging stoplight, 
she saw several shadows slip and move out of sight, moving 
in their direction.  The forms were somewhat indistinct, as 
though constantly changing shape and function, but there was 
an underlying sense of menace in those motions, something 
that made Monica want to run and hide in the darkest space 
she could find.

"That's the way it felt before," Craig muttered, and she 
noticed he was watching them.  "That need to hide in the 
one place that would be easiest for it to get to you."

"Whatever the hell they are, they're getting closer," 
Doggett said, a slight betrayal of uncertainty in the tone 
of his voice.  Monica looked back towards the intersection 
and noticed several more forms, much closer, before their 
motion was lost to her perception.  "How about that plan of 
yours, Thomas?"

"Working on it," McShane muttered, and she could see the 
way he was trembling, the muscles in his neck tight and 
strained.

And then, as she moved to look at his face, she saw 
something shift behind his eyes.

Subject: Fic: From That Eternal Silence - Chapter Eight (2/3)

****

Doggett heard Monica gasp, and he tore his gaze away from 
the bizarre shifts and slips of shadow.  She was staring at 
McShane as though something had happened to him, something 
unexpected.  Fearing the worst, he stepped towards the man, 
his hand sliding towards his weapon in the same graceful 
moment.

But as soon as he looked into McShane's face, he stopped, 
unable to understand what he was seeing.  It was as though 
McShane's eyes were glowing with a shimmering inner light, 
as if he were filled with some excess of electric energy 
that threatened to strike out from within.  Even the air 
around them seemed charged with something tangible, an 
ever-widening wave that seemed to filter the oppressive 
darkness and fear out of the air itself.

He turned to Craig, his hand no longer reaching for his gun.  
"Is this what happened before?"

Craig nodded.  "It's stronger this time, but yeah, this 
is the same thing."  He pointed towards the intersection.  
"Look.  You can see for yourself.  He's clearing the way."

Doggett followed Craig's gaze, and it was as though he 
could see the expanding sphere of light reaching into the 
night, disintegrating and diffusing the shadow creatures 
from the corners and cracks in which they attempted to hide.  
It seemed as if the sphere would continue to expand as far 
as their goal, but all too soon, its boundaries began to 
waver, fluctuate, and finally hold several hundred feet 
away.

"Start walking," McShane rasped, his face contorted in 
pain.  Craig grabbed his arm, and together they moved 
forward, McShane's legs bending stiffly at the knees, the 
rest of his body rigid.  The movement made their zone of 
protection shimmer into an even smaller space, but it was 
more than enough space for them to move forward in comfort.

Doggett did not move at first, instead finding himself 
unable to tear his eyes away from the figure in front of 
him.  It occurred to him that they were quickly losing 
their best weapon for the fight ahead; a battle that he 
could not even begin to understand how to wage.

"John?" he heard Monica say, and he looked down past 
the water dripping down from his matted hair.

"Monica, this is insane," he whispered, his voice barely 
audible over the constant din of the downpour.  "How can he 
do this?  How can anyone do this?"  He smiled, a weary grin.  
"I know, we've already heard the explanations.  But still..."

"We have to follow them, John," Monica insisted.  "I know 
this is difficult to understand, hard to accept, but these 
people need us.  Whatever doubts you might have about him, 
Thomas is suffering to make sure we make it in time to stop 
that ritual.  No matter what you might believe or not believe, 
that's what we have to focus on now."

Gathering his composure, slightly embarrassed by his momentary 
slip, he nodded and started walking briskly towards Craig 
and McShane.  Monica had been right to remind him that the 
real problem to solve was the ritual, that it was critical 
that they arrive in time to prevent Kirsten's death, but 
his doubts remained.  He had done everything possible to 
work past them for as long as possible, but now that he 
was by McShane's side, seeing all of that theory he had heard 
transmuted into sharp reality, it was overwhelming.  How 
could he doubt the reality of something so pervasive when 
it was exposed so blatantly before him?

A part of his mind reminded the skeptic, forced him to 
consider all of the inconsistencies and gaps in the story 
that McShane had told them.  It was obvious now that McShane 
had been aware of the plans of his enemies, that he had 
allowed himself to be arrested and detained.  He had allowed 
several young men and women to die horribly painful deaths, 
all so that the final plans of his adversaries could be 
revealed in full.  He had requested FBI involvement, and 
then carefully manipulated them until they were forced to 
help him.  And all the while, he had left his most devoted 
friend and his family in the dark, in jeopardy, to ensure 
that his plans would remain intact.

In the end, Doggett realized, it might not matter if McShane's 
enemy was defeated.  McShane himself was possibly just as much 
a threat.

***

Monica walked closely behind John, absently watching the 
shadows come and go around them, disappearing from around 
them, only to reappear in their wake.  But as they neared 
the intersection, she found herself no longer concerned with 
that threat.  As McShane had promised, he had been able to 
protect them from that particular attack.  Her worries were 
completely devoted to her friend.

Perhaps better than anyone, perhaps better than himself, she 
understood the battle that was waging within the core of his 
being.  John was a man whose entire existence hinged on the 
ability of his mind to reconcile and rationalize the world 
around him.  Ever since the death of his son, he had placed 
rigid boundaries on that world, choosing not to see anything 
that might force him to consider a world that was not quite 
so tidy.  Even as he had delved into the darkest corners of 
human depravity, inspired to find ever more authority to end 
the suffering of others, he had maintained those strict 
blinders.

His time on the X-Files had been a test of that resolve.  He 
had been forced to experience and observe some of the most 
bizarre and unexplainable events imaginable, things that 
even she had not considered possible.  Resurrections, alien 
viruses, ancient evils, all of it had crossed his path in the 
last eight months since his transfer.  And through it all, 
he had been able to hold on to some semblance of his rational 
world.

All of that had come to an end in the last 24 hours, as both 
science and his own senses had forced him to consider that 
there was something more.  For better or worse, he seemed to 
believe that accepting the unknown meant personal failure, 
some measure of weakness that he would have to admit.  The 
fact that he had lasted this long without showing the strain 
was remarkable.  Now the faade was breaking down, and he was 
beginning to waver in his resolve.  She had no doubt that he 
would do what was necessary.  Whatever it was that McShane 
had planned for him, John would manage to survive it.

She didn't know if he would be able to survive it with his 
heart and soul intact.

"We're here," Craig said suddenly, breaking her from her 
reverie.  "Thomas, you can stop now.  We're out of the trap."

The feeling of light and freedom collapsed around then, and 
Monica could feel the oppressive weight of the dark energies 
flowing around them once again.  McShane slumped weakly 
against his friend, his face pale.  He looked as though he 
had given every ounce of his own energy to repel the attack, 
and for a moment, Monica wondered if it was genuine.

"How is he?" John asked, looking closely at McShane's face.

"I'm fine," McShane said, but his voice was weak.  "We need 
to move quickly.  Time's running out."

"Right," John murmured, and he turned to Craig.  "Looks like 
it got what it wanted.  It's up to us."

He started towards the river, and Monica moved to help Craig 
support McShane as they moved to follow.  Watching John move, 
she could see that he was overcompensating, acting to keep 
himself from reacting.  It was a dangerous situation.

"This is bad," Craig said under his breath, addressing 
McShane, but obviously including her.  "I know that this is 
what we supposed to expect, but I have no idea how to fight 
this thing on my own.  And John's not holding it together 
very well.  We never should have..."

"We'll be fine," McShane slurred.  "All part of the plan."

"Pushing John to the breaking point was part of your plan?" 
Monica said harshly, careful to keep her voice low enough 
so that John would not overhear.

"I'd love to hear the answer to that question," Craig said, 
and for the first time, Monica had a sense of the young man's 
anger.

"We'll be fine," McShane repeated.  "We'll worry over the 
rest later.  Just stay strong, my friend.  You can do this."

They came to a small bridge, and John walked towards them, 
looking into McShane's eyes before saying anything.  Monica 
could see the weariness in both men, but the tension remained, 
and for a moment, it strengthened them both.  John pointed 
along the river, roughly to the northeast.

"That's the way?"  he said, his eyes hard.  "The way to 
your gate?"

Monica caught the specific way he asked the question, the 
evidence of the conflict within.  McShane merely nodded, 
and then John was on the move again, forcing the others 
to follow.

"Oh, sure," Craig said, forcing his characteristic grin.  
"We'll be just fine..."

***

The wind was biting every inch of his exposed face, numbing 
his hands until his fingers felt as though they were no longer 
attached.  And yet he walked on, step by step, his only concern 
reaching the goal.  He could feel Monica's gaze on his back, 
the way she seemed to be trying to read his every mood from 
his movements and words, but he was no longer concerned about 
that.

All that mattered was the final goal.

He could feel the emptiness rising within, the old and 
familiar demon.  The memory of ashes, searing flame on flesh, 
the endless image of his child lifeless.  It was the final 
image he saw in his mind when he closed his eyes every night, 
and the first hint of memory as his consciousness fluttered 
into awareness ever morning.  Maybe he would go to sleep 
contented, or rise with a smile, but in the end, somewhere 
in his soul, the image endured, the constant reminder of his 
mission in life.

He had thought that he had done everything in his power to 
save his son, to prevent the inevitable.  He had turned to 
every resource in his arsenal, even when he felt as though 
he had been grasping at straws, hinging his hopes on phantoms.  
It hadn't mattered.  None of it had mattered.  Because in the 
end, his son was dead, and that final enduring image of ashes 
was all that remained.

He would do this thing, save these lives.  He would see to 
the end of this threat, the thing that had laid his 
responsibility in his child's death bare before him.  He would 
deliver these questionable and deceptive allies into the 
struggle, and then he would make sure it came to an end.

He was no longer concerned with what might come after.

His footsteps took him past several houses, until he found 
himself descending into a shallow depression, a steady 
stream of muddy water rushing down to the river.  He followed 
the water's path with his gaze, noting how it led into a small 
but thick cluster of trees, divided by the muddy remnants of 
the creek bed.  It curved out of sight within the trees, and 
his instincts told him that this was the final path he needed 
to follow.

He looked back to McShane, and the man nodded, telling him 
that his suspicions were correct.  He avoided looking towards 
Monica, knowing that he couldn't face those perceptive now, 
not when he was so close and focused.  She knew what he was 
thinking, had seen the same image.  But her understanding was 
imperfect, impersonal.  He would trust her with his life, true, 
but his thoughts, his damnation, had to be his own.

The chill of the rushing water might have slowed him before, 
but the constant downpour from the relentless storm had long 
since sapped away the pain in his feet.  He vaguely considered 
that he would have to be concerned with hypothermia, given how 
long they had been exposed to the elements, but the thought 
flashed in and out of his mind without serious consideration.  
That was something to worry over when the job was done.

The sound of sloshing, not far behind, reminded him that he 
also had others to consider.  He scanned the terrain for any 
hint of resistance.  Their way had been strangely clear since 
the attack on Walnut, something that felt wrong when he thought 
about it.  The answer came to him quickly.  With McShane taken 
out of the fight, the enemy was confident that there was no 
way it could lose.  Allowing them to come to the endgame, to 
see it in person, was nothing more than a stroke of arrogance.

He stopped close to the first trees, looking to either side.  
There were houses clearly visible in all directions, but there 
was an odd quality to the air not far into the park.  He 
remembered what McShane and Craig had said, how the enemy 
could manipulate and change the world if needed, and resolutely 
continued on.  The curve took him slightly uphill, until the 
ground was slightly more firm.  A quick glance confirmed that 
he could no longer see the houses through the trees.

A movement to one side caught his eye, and he saw a large man 
standing in the center of the highest point in the creek bed, 
his body bare, blue eyes shining in the darkness.  Doggett 
recognized him as Charles Fell, the police sergeant.  On the 
ground, equally bare, was Kirsten Walden, her back intricately 
sliced with various symbols.  A second man stood over her, the 
bloodied knife in his grip, staring at Doggett with an 
expression of smug satisfaction.

Doggett continued walking towards the scene, gripping his 
weapon and taking careful aim in one swift motion.  "Federal 
agent!" he cried, not bothering to reach for his badge.  
Everyone on the scene would know who he was by now.  That 
much was certain.  "Put the weapon down, and move away!"

Neither man moved.  In fact, Fell seemed more than a little 
amused.

"I said, step away!" Doggett said more forcefully, and a 
casual flick of his thumb cocked the hammer.  "Step away 
now!"

Before he could say another word, a shot rang out from 
behind him, and as the skin of his right arm seared with 
a glancing wound, his weapon fell to the ground and 
discharged.

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

****

Monica had tried calling out to John, had tried to stop him 
from aiming at Kirsten, but nothing had worked.  As soon as 
she realized that he was going to fire, she had drawn her 
own gun and hoped that she could get his attention with a 
close shot.

It took only a moment for her to recognize that she had 
tagged him, as he grabbed his arm and hit the ground, one 
hand reaching for his weapon after its wild discharge.  The 
man holding the knife lurched backward as Monica knelt to 
John's side, a quick look over her shoulder confirming that 
Craig and McShane were moving on Fell in their own way.

"John, listen to me," Monica said quickly, as he shook his 
head, trying to clear it.  "As soon as you walked into the 
trees, we tried to get your attention.  You just walked 
right up here and aimed at Kirsten.  I had to stop you."

He seemed to understand, cursed under his breath.  "Damn 
thing got in my head," he muttered.  He looked around, 
trying to get a sense of what was happening.

Monica pulled John to his feet, unable to get a sense of 
what was happening.  On the surface of things, it appeared 
as though Craig and McShane were just standing next to 
Kirsten, staring at Fell impassively.  But there was some 
kind of undercurrent rushing all around them, the hair on 
the back of her neck rising in response to some overwhelming 
sense of dread.  She could only imagine what was actually 
taking place.

"How are they doing?" John said suddenly, and he looked 
in their direction.  "What are they doing?  Why don't they 
take him down?"

"I don't think this is that kind of fight," Monica reminded 
him.  "Besides, you just showed us why that wouldn't work."  
There was movement in the trees, first to one side, then 
another.  Realization dawned on her, and she pulled John 
into cover behind one tree.

"What?" he asked, his tone slightly testy.  His expression 
suggested that he was still coming out of whatever cloud 
of confusion that Fell had caught him in.

"I think Fell's called in the reinforcements," Monica said, 
pressing her back against the tree and facing the opposite 
direction from the one John was facing.  "We've got company."

John turned to ask her what she meant, but then he cursed and 
raised his weapon, firing a shot towards one of the onrushing 
cultists.  The shot tagged a tree just to one side of the 
attacker, forcing the man to duck for cover.

"How many on your side?" Monica asked, grouping two shots 
closely in one direction, then taking aim several feet to 
the right.  "I've got at least half a dozen, and they've got 
much better cover."

"Maybe ten," John replied, "but it's hard to tell.  But no 
return fire so far."

"Here either," Monica agreed.  "Keep them contained, then?"

"We cover them as long as possible," he answered, nodding 
his head towards the eerily silent struggle unfolding nearby.  
"Shoot to wound if they don't stop coming, and let's hope 
these two can end this fast."

Both of them popped off several more shots, laying down a 
suppressing sweep of rounds in as wide an arc as possible.  
The tactic appeared to work, keeping the bulk of the cultists 
at bay, but each round increased the possibility of a wayward 
casualty.  The fact that neither of them could clearly see 
their opponents made the situation even more disturbing, 
because shooting a man or woman in self-defense was one 
thing.  Killing teenagers, like the ones that had attacked 
John and Craig, was another story.  Even in self-defense, 
it was a heart-rending choice.  And Monica couldn't help 
but recall the choice she had made with Rhiannon, 
compounding the fear.

Firing the last round in her clip, she pulled the next one 
out, looking over her shoulder towards Craig and McShane.  
Craig was standing up to the pressure well, though his body 
was tense and shaking slightly.  But McShane was fading fast, 
close to collapsing.  Whatever the man had planned, she hoped 
it happened quickly.

She caught movement to one side from the corner of her eye, 
and turned in just enough time to fire at an onrushing older 
man, bringing him down with a shot to the leg.  "They're 
almost on us!" she cried, and from the increasing rapidity 
of John's shots, she assumed he was dealing with the same 
thing.

"I'm almost out!" John said seconds later.  "I think this is 
it!"  He fired one last shot, and then tossed the gun to the 
ground as he rose, sliding the Ka-Bar from its sheath on his 
belt.

Monica rose to her feet as well.  "Something must be 
happening.  They must be close, or they wouldn't be rushing 
in to stop it!"

John didn't answer.  Two men, barely over the age of twenty, 
came at him in silence, knives sweeping at John's face and 
throat with an untrained abandon.  John closed on one them, 
snapping a kick into the man's knee as his elbow crushed 
into the man's chest, sending the man reeling.  In the same 
motion, John slashed out with his blade, catching his second 
opponent with a deep gash on the arm.  Both men fell to the 
ground, and John stepped back towards Monica, pressing his 
back against hers.

"I'm out," she said finally, dropping her own gun and 
reluctantly pulling out her own knife.  She had been trained 
in its use, of course, like all agents, but she was less 
inclined to fight in close quarters.  John had seen this 
kind of action more than a few times over the course of his 
career, though more in the service than in the Bureau.  While 
she had seen her share of less than pleasant confrontations, 
dealing with a mob of onrushing cultists without a gun or 
sufficient backup was not her status quo.

"Stand with your back to me," John reminded her.  "Remain 
as close to me as you can."

Then they were too busy to speak, each fending off a lunge 
or swing from one or another dark figure emerging from the 
darkness.  More than once, she felt him press back hard on 
her back for support, but they held fast, adjusting their 
position to keep the fight away from Craig and McShane.  
More than once, she felt something catch on her jacket, but 
with the cold, it was hard to tell if anything had made it 
deep enough to wound.

A few scant minutes passed, and then the wave broke, leaving 
them standing, breathing hard, hear the center of the clearing.  
She looked down, checking to be sure that she had managed not 
to seriously wound anyone, and saw a slight trickle of blood 
down one arm.  Looking back at John, she could see that he 
was likewise wounded, but nothing serious yet.

"We're not going to last much longer," she said, noting how 
her grip on the hilt of her blade was tight and unfeeling.

"I know," John replied.  His voice was strangely even, as 
though he held no regret at the thought.  "They had us 
weakened to begin with.  The weather, the cold...and we're 
badly outnumbered."

Monica was about to say something more, but her unsure words 
were cut off as she looked out into the trees and saw dozens 
of cultists waiting there, weapons in hand.  By the way John 
went rigid behind her, she knew that he was looking at the 
same thing.  She looked over at Craig and McShane, hoping 
against hope.  But McShane was down on one knee, Kirsten on 
her knees now trying to help him stay upright, and Craig 
was nearly at his own end.

The cultists began to move forward, slowly but with purpose, 
and John raised his hands, preparing his defense.  "Here 
we go," he said wearily, and before she could respond, three 
young men came running at each of them.  Monica clenched her 
jaw and raised her good arm, just as a much larger figure 
came bearing down on her.

And then their opponents dropped to the ground, their hands 
gripping their heads in agony.

"Now!" she heard McShane cry out, and she and John turned 
just in time to see Craig leap towards a stumbling Fell, 
twin daggers in his hands.  Craig was on the man in a whirl 
of motion, ripping the edge of one blade across Fell's eyes, 
plunging the second dagger deep into the man's chest.  The 
driving attack forced Fell to the ground, and with a fluid 
motion, Craig sank the first dagger into Fell's neck.

The ferocity of the attack was stunning, and the combined 
trauma of the combat and carnage nearly made her ill.  But 
she reminded herself that she had seen much worse, and all 
things being equal, it could have been them.  Still, it was 
cold comfort.

John was still breathing hard, several shallow wounds showing 
on his hands and face.  He looked over at Craig, who was 
staggering back away from Fell with a look of concentration 
and determination on his face.  Monica was confused for a 
moment, and then remembered what they had been told.  McShane 
was already preparing, holding Kirsten tightly to his chest.  
But his eyes were on John, and she realized what was about 
to happen.

"Oh, shit," she breathed, and before she could warn John 
what was coming, something bright and overwhelming struck 
her behind her eyes, and there was nothing but darkness.

***

The shock of separation was nothing compared to the shock 
of having been brought to this moment, of failing to take 
an accurate accounting of the ability and persistence of 
his adversaries.  They laid before him now, the four that 
had placed themselves in the way of his righteous path, 
preventing him from his rightful legacy as the next to lead 
and control the desires and dreams of those bound and trapped 
within the physical trappings of flesh and force.

There was Thomas, his stalker, the wolf in sheep's clothing, 
hiding in plain sight until the shepherd had come to lead 
him to his eventual slaughter.  Ah, then he had shown his 
teeth!  Striking out and waking up all the pretty little 
sleepers.

Now he was protecting his own flock, herding his own sheep, 
the least of which being the cow in his arms, the one that 
had done such wonderful and skillful work, his happy little 
moaning missionary.  She was like an empty set to him now, 
completely given over to the new shepherd, unaware or 
unconcerned that her fate would be the same.  Would it not 
have been better to serve the coming of the next messiah?

These two, he knew, were lost to him, closed away from his 
touch, more useless than even the weak children fallen to 
the dirt, wallowing in the mud like sows and cows and worms.

No, the others were far more promising; full of nooks and 
crannies and spaces where he could slip and slide inside!  
He struck at the female first, hoping to find something of 
weakness and doubt that he could use and twist and stoke.  
But the very first flash through her mind left him sickened 
and distraught.  Oh, this one was lost as well!  Another 
believer in the tapestry of life or whatever the latest 
fantasy was, another sheep for the wolf!

But time was of the essence!  And the female was ready 
for him, knew that he was coming.  She would fight, and 
struggling was something he had no intention of doing.  
This was the night, sure as eggs was eggs!  And he would 
need someone able to take these three sheep out of his 
sight, take them out of the fight, so their souls could 
ignite!

The male!  Ah, now here was a catch!  Tied up and twisted 
by his own doubts and demons!  What difference, then, to 
give form and will to those demons, to let the animal rise 
and the man fall into line!  Unable to trust the wolf, or 
even himself.  How precious this gift!

And such irony, that this one had all of the mush and 
filth in his head, like the others, but chose not to believe.  
Denied it as he should!  And so this one, this supposed 
"son of God", would become just that, the vessel of the 
next messiah, come to lead his flock to the new Jerusalem!

***

There was a spark of pain just behind his eyes, as if 
something had struck him, sending the fragile bones of his 
nose cavity into his brain.  He almost expected the quick 
rush of darkness that would come with death, or that bright 
white tunnel from all those stories, but there was suddenly 
just darkness and pain.  Something told him that he had 
fallen to the ground, that he was lying in the cold mud.  
But he found that he no longer cared.

Because he was no longer alone.

Something was flittering there, in that space behind his 
eyes, washing and swimming within the pain, carving out 
space for itself.  There was the most faint awareness that 
this was not normal, that something was trying to steal 
away his control, his will, but any attempt to catch hold 
of the flittering nothing left him without reward.

John...John Doggett...

He heard the voice in his head, clearly as he would his own 
thoughts, and for a moment he pushed it away, trying with 
all of his might.  But it remained there, gathering strength 
and purpose.

Where is your strength, John?  Is it lost with your 
conviction?

"Leave me alone," he cried out in his own mind.  "Get out 
of my damn head!"

But it remained, laughing in the seeming distance, pulling 
up all of his doubts, laying them bare.  All of the ways 
that McShane had manipulated him, telling him the lies that 
he was so willing to believe, starting with that overwhelming 
sense of innocence.  Had it been like a game to him, bringing 
in someone with no sense of the dangers involved, sending him 
into the slaughter?  Letting those five young people die in 
horrible, terrible ways, for his own sick and twisted reasons?

That is the wolf for you, John!  He lied to you, treated you 
like one of those sheep, told you what you needed to hear to 
do exactly what he wanted.  Told you just enough truth so 
you would follow him blindly into the depths of hell!

And that was the worst of it, he knew.  He had allowed 
himself to trust in everything that McShane had told him, 
all the claims of standing on the high and moral ground.  
He had forgotten how easily trust could be twisted into 
naivet.  McShane had capitalized on that basic trust that 
Doggett was willing to give, banking on the benefit of the 
doubt.

How can you trust anyone, John?  When you know now, more 
than ever, that you cannot trust in what seems to be truth, 
and what appears to be the lie?  Your world is a world built 
on trusting others, on believing in the basic humanity of 
man.  But how can you be certain that there even is such a 
thing, now that you know there is so much more?

He saw flashes of the last year, images of those fateful 
days in Arizona after Mulder's disappearance, memories of 
Tipit and the dark dreams he had experienced, the formless 
void of those moments before he awoke in the lair of the 
sin-eater, watching Mulder recover from the strange and 
unknown illness that had infested his supposedly dead yet 
reborn body.  All of them points of intersection on a 
tapestry of lines that Craig's words had woven.  It seemed 
so clear now, but if that were true...

Yes!  You see it now, don't you?  You could have saved him, 
John.  You could have accepted what you were, what you 
could have been.  You could have seen it all, stopped it 
from happening!  But you refused to believe, didn't you?  
You refused to believe what has now been shown to be true.

He felt himself slipping, falling into the darkness of 
that abyss.  He was like a drowning man, sliding under 
the darkness that was spreading like fire through his mind, 
trapping him and pulling him under.

You know it's true!  You could have stopped it.  You could 
have had it all.  But you were weak, weak for your son, and 
he died horribly and alone because you were unable to simply 
let go and believe.  You were responsible, John!  You were 
responsible...

Faced with the guilt, he curled into himself, hid from 
the pain.  But everywhere he looked, that fatal image 
remained, the body of his son consumed in the fire that 
he could not quench.

Ashes, ashes, we all fall down...down and down and down...

"No," he whispered, and with everything that remained, he 
pushed away the image, forced it from his sight.

You know it's true, John.  Accept it!

"No," he said, more strongly.  "It's a lie.  It has to be 
a lie!"  He pushed back against the darkness, driving it 
back.  If McShane had lied to him, lied about his plans, 
his intentions, his motives, then why should Craig have 
been any less a target for lies?  And he already knew that 
Craig had been yet another pawn in the game.  Why should 
McShane have told him the entire story?  Of course he 
wouldn't!

But the science, John...you have heard the science.  The 
world accepts and fosters the very things you reject.  
Would you reject the world?

"The science came from him, too," he cried out to the 
darkness.  "You want me to question McShane?  Challenge 
his honesty?  Then I question everything he wanted me to 
believe!  If so much of what he said was a deception, then 
maybe the science is just as much of a lie."

John...it is science...it is reality.  How...

'I don't know that," he called, gaining strength and 
resolve.  "Maybe it's true.  If so, then I'll face that 
in its own time.  Until then, it might just be another 
lie, another illusion that someone wants me to believe...
and I reject it!"

But I'm here, John.  If you accept me, then how can you 
reject all of the rest?

"I can't," he admitted.  But there was a strength behind 
the words.  "That just means that you must be an illusion, 
too...something else that someone needs me to believe.  
And I reject you!"

With everything he had, he sought to silence the voice 
that was not his own, driving it from his thoughts and 
mind without doubt or hesitation.  The darkness held for 
a moment, sending him the images and memories of pain, 
struggling in vain to overwhelm him with guilt and doubt.  
But doubt was something he could no longer entertain.  
He had allowed himself a time of weakness, a day of 
misplaced conscience.  But those feelings had been built 
on a house of cards.  And he no longer had the luxury of 
those doubts, not if he chose to survive and live on to 
honor his son's memory.

"I wasn't responsible," he muttered, repeating it again 
and again, until the only voice he heard was his own.

***

Monica was the first to notice, as John opened his eyes 
and blinked frantically, as water dripping from her hair 
onto his face.  For a moment, there was the hint of 
something more behind his intense blue eyes, something 
that made her wonder if he had lost the struggle.  But 
then he was looking back at her, and she knew that it 
was truly him.

"I told you," McShane said, kneeling down beside her.  
"It's him.  He rejected it.  And I forced it back through 
the gate.  It's over."

Monica looked around, at the various wounded now picking 
themselves off the ground or calling for help, the general 
confusion and shame on their faces.  If she could have felt 
more chilled, she might have in that moment.  How many people 
would never remember what had happened to them, only that 
there were times in their lives that they could not explain?  
And how many of them would have memories and pasts like 
Kirsten, entire years that they could never completely 
forget or forgive themselves for?

"No, Thomas," Monica said wearily, her eyes never straying 
from the scene.  "I don't think this will ever truly be 
over."

McShane looked as though he might argue, but then he stopped 
himself, simply nodding.

John stirred, and she saw him looking up at her, reaching 
with one weak hand for hers.  She took it, grasping it 
tightly.

"Monica," he rasped.  "I wasn't responsible."  His voice 
became more insistent.  "You understand?  I wasn't 
responsible."

Nothing more needed to be said.


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

****

CHAPTER NINE

December 1, 2000

3:54 PM

Clark, NJ

"I know what you're saying, sir," Doggett said, holding the 
cell phone in one hand as he rummaged through his bag with 
the other.  "But the fact is, the report ought to be fairly 
simple.  Things turned out to be a little more straightforward 
than we had originally thought."

"What about the local law enforcement issues?" Skinner asked, 
his voice more than a little strained.

"There was some talk about pressing charges against McShane 
and Craig Walden, but that seems to have been cleared up."  
Doggett smirked at his bag, and started taking items out, 
rummaging a little more.  "I doubt that either the families 
or the department really want to deal with an official 
investigation into the cult activity around here."

"Sounds about right," Skinner observed wryly.  "Not too 
different from what we were looking at."

Smiling to himself, he pulled the small black book out of 
his bag.  "I think my report should cover everything we need," 
he said with confidence.  "I'll be running it past Agent Reyes 
before the end of the day."

"What are your plans for wrapping this up?"

"There are some last minute items that need to be attended 
to," Doggett said as he flipped open the book to "D".  "Agent 
Reyes will be going back to New Orleans tonight.  I'll drive 
her to the airport, and head out from there."

"Last minute items?" Skinner asked, his tone wary.

"Just making sure that we won't be coming back to deal with 
any legal issues," Doggett said evasively.

"Glad to hear it," Skinner replied.  "Just so you know, the 
Deputy Director was rather pleased to hear that things ended 
up going smoothly up there, despite the time it took to get 
some results.  He wants to see you first thing in the morning."  
His smile could be felt through the connection.  "Be in my 
office about an hour before that, all right?"

"I hear you," Doggett agreed.  "See you then."

He cleared the line, and then placed the phone on the table 
next to the two faxes he had received that morning.  He 
stared at the page in his book for a moment.  He wasn't sure 
that he wanted to make the call, but something inside of him 
told him that he had to, for some sense of closure.  He had 
spent a great deal of the morning dealing with the thoughts 
of his son, especially after he had gotten the faxes from 
Mulder and Scully.  But there were still some lingering 
thoughts for someone else that he needed to work through.

He tapped the surface of the table for a few seconds, and 
then picked up the phone, dialing the number on the page.  
He felt slightly foolish as he waited for her to pick up, as 
though he were a schoolboy calling for his first date.  He 
was amazed to discover that he was still able to feel that 
way.

"Hello?"

His mouth was suddenly dry, but he stammered out, "Hi...it's 
John.  John Doggett."

The woman's voice was warm with surprise and delight.  "Well, 
hello there.  This is an unexpected pleasure.  I wasn't sure 
when I would hear from you again."

"I wasn't either," he said, as the memories of their last 
moments together passed through his mind.  "I don't have much 
time to talk.  I just wanted...I needed to hear your voice, 
that's all."

There was a slight hesitation, and then she asked, "John, is 
everything all right?  Did something happen?"

"No, no, everything's fine," he replied, forcing his tone 
to remain light.  "Just something that reminded me of you, 
that's all.  And I wanted to make sure everything was still 
all right."

"Are you sure?" Mo said, gently pressing him.

"I'm sure," he repeated, glancing at the clock.  Monica 
would be stopping by any minute now.  "I have to go.  It was 
good hearing your voice again, Mo.  Take care of yourself."

"You too, John," she said.  It was obvious that she had been 
more than a little confused, but thankfully, she had let it 
slide.

He tossed the book back into his bag, wishing that he could 
have spoken to her a bit longer, told her just a little more.  
But that would have led to questions that he was not prepared 
to answer.  And he had the distinct feeling that he was going 
to have enough questions to answer in the next few days.

He was reading over the fax from Scully for perhaps the seventh 
time when there was a knock at his door, and Monica walked in 
with her own bag hanging from her shoulder.  Most of the wounds 
from the night before had turned out to be little more than 
deep scratches in the light of day, but there were enough of 
them on her hands and arms to make easy explanations hard to 
believe.  He thought about his own matching set, and sighed, 
thankful that it had not been worse.  Even the glancing wound 
from the gunshot was little more than a slight burn.

"I'm just about ready," Doggett said, gesturing at his bag.  
"I told Craig that we would meet him in the lobby, and then 
go over to see Thomas and Kirsten on the way to the airport."

Monica raised an eyebrow in surprise.  "I thought everything 
had been cleared up this morning."

"Mostly," he agreed.  "But there are a couple of things I 
wanted to settle first."

"I understand," Monica said.  She looked at the pages in 
his hand.  "Is that the reply from Agent Scully?"

Doggett nodded.  "She seems to have covered the subject 
rather thoroughly," he said, passing it to Monica with a 
smirk.  "Though it certainly couldn't beat Mulder's conclusion."  
He pointed to the other fax, which was one page with rather 
large writing in capital letters.

INTERESTING THEORIES, AGENT DOGGETT.  
PS: IT'S A VIRUS!!!

Monica broke into a laugh, and then started reading the 
response from Scully.  It did not take her long to figure out 
where the response was going, as the look on her face became 
somewhat troubled.  When she was finished, she handed it back 
to Doggett, shaking her head.

"Well, it was thorough," she murmured.

"I'd say that as much as I needed to hear that, and as much 
as it may have put some of my personal fears to rest, there 
is someone else who deserves to see that."  Doggett folded it 
in half, sliding it into his jacket pocket.

"Let me guess," Monica said as he grabbed his own bag.  "Is 
this your way of getting the last word?"

"Just a small repayment," Doggett replied.

***

Agent Doggett:

I was able to review the information that you sent regarding 
the theories connecting quantum theory, elements of cosmology, 
and various references to Native and Celtic folklore into a 
theory of intelligence as a function apart from the physical 
human body.  Mulder did not explain the source of this theory, 
or the context in which it was offered, but I suspect that 
might be for the best.

While Mulder was largely enthusiastic about the theory, 
despite taking a somewhat predictable point of view regarding 
mechanism, I regret that I cannot share the same level of 
confidence in the theory you have described.

Setting aside the references to Native and Celtic folklore, 
which were indeed accurate, if a bit selective, the various 
pieces of these particular and peculiar puzzle can only fit 
together if certain uncertainties and assumptions are ignored 
or dismissed.

***

They found Craig sitting near one of the large windows in 
the lobby, watching the rain as it continued to fall outside.  
The storm had struck its greatest blow during the night, but 
some showers lingered in the region.  It was a constant 
reminder of the ordeal they had shared the night before.

Monica had been concerned about John's mental well-being 
all morning, when they had been dealing with the remnants 
of the local officials in the wake of Fell's demise.  He had 
been slightly unsure, distracted.  While he had dealt with 
the issues calmly, speaking effectively in Craig's defense 
when the time had come to decide whether or not charges would 
be made, he had been strangely quiet when the issue of 
McShane's accidental killing of Davis had been discussed.  
In the end, no charges had been filed, but they had noted the 
lack of support for McShane.

Things had changed dramatically in the hours that had passed 
since that meeting.  John was far more confident, acting with 
the authority and assurance that she had come to expect over 
the years.  If nothing else, Scully's response to the science 
that Craig had offered had given John enough solid ground to 
restore his well-worn skepticism.  There was a calm quality 
to his actions now, and while that was a welcome change from 
what she had seen in him the day before, she could not help 
but think that it was a step in the wrong direction.

On the other hand, much of John's crisis of faith seemed to 
have fallen onto Craig's shoulders.  The young man's usual 
grin was nowhere to be seen, replaced by an expression of 
deep worry and contemplation.  He had spent a good part of 
his life dealing with the dark and decadent practices of 
his beloved sister, then following in the footsteps of a man 
who had seemed to be working to end the twisted plans of a 
mad spirit.  But in the space of a few hours, he had 
discovered that his sole friend and mentor was capable of 
acts and decisions that he could not reconcile with the ideal 
he had carried in his heart.  Even worse, he had been forced 
to kill a man without reservation.

Setting all of that aside, he was also dealing with the fact 
that his driving purpose in life had come to an end.  Unlike 
McShane, he had no compulsion to remain in the area to watch 
over the gate.  He had been the dutiful soldier, the willing 
servant, only to find that he did not know what he was 
supposed to do now that the battle was won.  Adding so much 
revelation and guilt to the equation had to be overwhelming.

And now John was planning to deliver the final blow.

"Craig," she called out, getting the young man's attention.  
"How are you holding up?"

"I'm all right," he said, though his voice was less certain 
than his words.  "I'm still trying to figure it all out."

"I think you know that I sympathize," John said, setting 
his bag down and sitting in a chair across from Craig.  "I 
was right where you are this time yesterday...questioning 
the decisions I had made, rethinking my assumptions, taking 
responsibility for things...things I could not change."

"Because of the things I told you," Craig reminded him.  
"Maybe the only thing that Thomas told me that wasn't a 
calculated lie."

"I wouldn't go that far," Monica said, sitting in a chair 
to Doggett's right.  "I think he truly felt that he was 
acting in your best interests, being the best friend he 
could.  I think his reasons for teaching you how to use the 
gifts you have been given were genuine."

"He needed me to fight that thing," Craig said, shaking 
his head.  "If I hadn't shown the same level of potential 
that my sister had, I doubt he would have bothered to give 
my welfare a second thought."

"I don't know if we'll ever know that," John interjected.  
"And to be honest, I don't really know what I could suggest 
for your future.  But I do think you should see what another 
agent in the Bureau, someone educated in the subjects you 
were telling me about, had to say about the information 
Thomas chose to give you."

He pulled the fax from Agent Scully out of his pocket, 
handing it to Craig without further explanation.  Craig 
looked it over, then began reading it more carefully.  
Moments later, when he was finished, he seemed to re-read 
some parts again.  If there was any reaction at all, it was 
a deepening of the sadness behind his eyes.

"I guess that says it all," Craig said finally.  He handed 
it back towards John.  "Thanks."

John returned it to his pocket.  "Again, I'm sorry that 
it turned out this way."

"We were both used, Agent Doggett," Craig reminded him.  
"The only difference was how long.  I have nine years of my 
life to make up for.  Can you say the same?"

Monica saw the pain behind John's eyes as he answered.  
"Maybe I can, Craig.  There are times I think that I've 
wasted the past several years, when I find myself dealing 
with the same pain and memories that have been haunting me 
every day.  But maybe that's not the way to look at it."  
He smiled gently.  "Maybe it's about living up to the 
ideals and promise that Luke represented for just as long 
a time."

John stood, pulling the strap of his bag over his shoulder.  
"No matter what else you might be thinking, Craig, remember 
the principles you were fighting for all those years.  Don't 
think about how it ended."  He turned to leave as Monica 
stood.

"Agent Doggett," Craig called, standing as well.  "Have you 
been able to do that?  Stop thinking about how it ended?"

Monica could see how John forced himself to maintain 
composure, as he turned to answer.

"No," he said, his voice filled with renewed regret.  "No, 
I haven't."

Title: From That Eternal Silence - Chapter Nine (2/3)

****

Several versions of quantum theory discuss the idea of 
nonlocality, the concept of physical states being affected 
by a distant and seemingly unconnected cause.  This idea was 
more or less proven by Bell's Theorem.  There have been 
several papers and books written in recent years attempting 
to show that this property of fundamental particles is proof 
that there is some pervasive connection between all particles.

However, Bell's Theorem only proves that nonlocality exists.  
It does not attribute a cause for this phenomenon, nor does 
it attempt to interpret this property or apply it to the 
physical world.  Many of the papers attempting to do just 
that over the years have been proven in error or deemed 
inconclusive.

Specifically, while the notion of an infinite number of 
quantum states has been a basic assumption of quantum theory, 
there is no conclusive evidence to show that these infinite 
quantum states are "entangled", connecting two particles at 
a distance through the nonlocality of Bell's Theorem.  Current 
experiments have been unable to provide a solid case for 
proving or disproving the theory of infinite "entanglement".

***

The apartment on Centennial Avenue had been badly damaged 
when the police had come to abduct Kirsten, but the weather 
that had followed had dealt an even greater blow.  At the 
very least, thousands of dollars worth of repairs would be 
needed before it might be restored to its original condition.  
Many of the items in the home had been destroyed, and others 
would need a great deal of care to be reclaimed.  In the 
meantime, McShane, Kirsten Walden, and their daughter 
Rhiannon were staying in another apartment on the other 
side of town.  They found McShane sitting on the back porch, 
watching the rain fall as he waiting for them to arrive.

"I had hoped you would leave without making more out of 
this than is necessary," McShane said as they walked up to 
him.  "But I should have known that you would need to 
confront me."

"You didn't know for certain?" Doggett asked sarcastically.  
He adjusted his belt, his fingers lingering by his cell 
phone before sliding into his pocket.

"Of course I did," McShane replied, smiling up at them.  
"That has nothing to do with what I might have wished for."  
He gestured towards the back door.  "Kirsten and Rhiannon 
are inside, Agent Reyes.  I suspect you would like to see 
them for yourself.  And John and I must talk."

Monica hesitated, not at all pleased, but relented when 
Doggett nodded that she should go inside and see to the 
others.  Doggett waited to say anything until after the 
door closed, and then he turned to McShane, his eyes full 
of anger.

"You used me," Doggett hissed, taking the nearest empty 
chair and pulling it directly in front of McShane.  "You 
had this planned from the very beginning, didn't you?  When 
exactly did I become a part of your little scheme?"

McShane stared into Doggett's eyes for a long moment, and 
then looked back at the rain, sighing.  "You may not have 
heard of Fox Mulder before taking on his case, Agent Doggett, 
but among certain circles, he is quite well known.  And the 
X-Files are a part of public record.  Many of the reports 
and findings have been released through the Freedom of 
Information Act.

"I will admit that I had planned to contact Mulder, when 
I first put this plan in motion.  Mulder would have been 
the one with the proper background in the ritualistic 
crimes, while Agent Scully's personality would have been 
perfect for the role of the begrudging skeptic.  The 
combination, you see, was the key.  One to believe, 
understand, and interpret...and the other to provide 
the perfect trap for the enemy when its host was mortally 
wounded."

McShane turned back to Doggett, a knowing smile on his face.  
"But then Mulder was abducted, and you were brought into 
the X-Files.  That presented me with a slight problem.  I 
understood their dynamic, but you were far more skeptical 
than Agent Scully ever was.  And Agent Scully made a very 
unconvincing Mulder, you must admit."

McShane leaned forward.  "You, John Doggett, turned out to 
be even more perfect than Agent Scully ever would have been."

"Perfect?" Doggett snapped back.  "Your perfect trap?"

"That's right," McShane confirmed.

"You planned this from the beginning, long before this 
month," Doggett repeated.  "You let them all die, let them 
be part of the rituals, because you were unwilling to make 
your move when it was strong enough to fight back."

"Of course," McShane said with a dismissive wave of his 
hand.  "What sort of fool do you take me for, John?  You 
don't win if you fail to develop the best strategy and 
commit to it long before the battle is waged.  And you also 
need to be able to adjust to the little surprises that come 
along, plan for the worst possible contingency."

He pointed at Doggett.  "You came alone.  That was a surprise.  
I had not heard that Agent Scully was on leave.  But your 
mind was wide open, John, from the minute you walked in that 
door.  I knew how to make you believe in my innocence, saw 
the recent memory of your work with Agent Reyes.  I knew 
that she would be the one to lead you where I needed you 
to go.  And so I made sure you considered getting her 
involved from the very beginning."

"It worked beautifully," McShane said with a grin.  "She 
walked in, and her believer's mind was just as easy to work 
with.  The rest was simple.  You did exactly what I wanted, 
and when I sent you to Kirsten and Craig, you were both 
ready to believe what they had to say."

McShane stopped Doggett before he could interject.  "You 
were never meant to believe, Agent Doggett.  Not completely.  
You were always meant to have those lingering doubts.  I saw 
the conflict in your heart, plainly there in your mind, and 
I made sure that whatever Craig told you, he would end up 
taking you to that house at the very moment Theresa McMillan 
was being led to her death.  To make sure you would end up 
hearing all those reasons to believe, but still be reminded 
of the exact reason why you cannot allow yourself to believe."

"Those damn ravens again," Doggett said, remembering how 
they had been "watching" that night.  "Craig never knew?"

"Of course not," McShane said with a roll of his eyes.  
"I've been training him, but a part of that training is a 
kind of selective conditioning.  He had no idea that I was 
suggesting certain actions."

Doggett sat back, shaking his head.  "So all of that was 
part of the plan?  Forcing me to what...face my demons?"

"Not face them to win," McShane replied.  "Face them to 
bring that conflict between your rational mind and your 
emotions to the forefront, and then continue to plant the 
seeds of doubt until you didn't know what to believe.  By 
the time we arrived at the gate, you were willing to believe 
what was happening around you, faced with all of the science 
and spiritual elements that your fellow agent validated with 
her own decisions and interpretations."

McShane hooked a thumb over his shoulder.  "I needed to 
stay strong enough to protect Kirsten.  Craig needed to be 
the one to kill Fell, to release the enemy and force it to 
find another host.  Craig would have been just strong enough 
to keep it out.  I made sure of that as well.  And Monica 
was enough of a believer to understand what was coming, and 
keep it out."

He pointed a finger at Doggett's chest.  "Your conflict was 
like a beacon for it.  Enough of a believer to accept its 
existence and its strength, conflicted enough to be victimized.  
But it couldn't understand the depth of your denial.  In the 
end, it was so weak after driving the ritual forward, being 
forced from Fell, and then fighting and losing to you...well, 
it was very easy for me to finish it then."

Doggett was still for a moment, and then cursed under his 
breath.  "And that was your plan?  To use the woman you say 
you love, to risk the mother of your child...and that child...
all so you could have things your way?"  He looked in 
McShane's eyes.  "You forced me to consider the kind of pain 
and suffering that someone I care for would experience if 
I failed.  Knowing that, you still planned to let that happen 
to Kirsten?"

McShane sighed, looking back towards the rain.  "It is my 
duty to protect the gate and those within its influence.  That 
is what I was made for, John."  He looked back to Doggett.  
"As part of your duty as a federal agent, would you hesitate 
to make those same sacrifices?  Didn't you make that same 
choice when you working the streets of New York, working 
in the FBI?"

"Of course," Doggett acknowledged.  "The difference was, and 
is, that I never believed that my choice gave me the right to 
use people as pawnsto fulfill that duty."

"Then you are as blind as you are in denial," McShane said 
with a calm smile.  Then he shook his head.  "The fact is, 
I told you the truth when I told you I was not planning on 
letting the ritual come to pass.  I knew they would try to 
kill me at the station, as the sixth victim.  I had seen the 
list at Suicide.  But as I said before, Agent Doggett, the 
wise strategist always has a contingency plan."  He pointed 
his finger at Doggett again.  "You survived.  Kirsten is 
healing well.  And Craig and I are still here to help this 
community heal."

"A community that suffered for years because you decided 
not to act," Doggett pressed.

"What are a few years, when they will have all of eternity 
to heal?"  McShane rebuffed.

Doggett waved that off.  "They don't know or believe that, 
Thomas.  Maybe you're too far gone to realize that, or remember 
what normal life is like.  But there are hundreds of people out 
there who are going to be facing the reality of what they have 
done for almost twenty years.  Some of them have been doing 
these things, those horrible and terrible things, for their 
entire lives!  How are they going to forgive themselves, 
Thomas?  When they don't know why they did what they did?  
It's not as though you can just explain it to them."

McShane nodded.  "I considered that.  With the enemy gone, 
with the gate secure, I can help make things better.  They 
will never know.  But I can help them come to terms, even 
help them forget."

"Craig was right," Doggett said coldly.  "He said you were 
changing.  That you were just like them."  He stood, moving 
towards the door.  "If you truly believe that messing with 
the lives of these people even more, guiding them towards 
your version of happiness, is the right thing...how is that 
any different, Thomas?"

McShane shook his head.  "You don't understand.  But there 
are those who do."

"Like Craig?" Doggett said sarcastically.

"Yes," McShane said with conviction.  "He knows what needs 
to be done.  He knows he will never be a sentinel.  But he 
is strong enough, aware enough, to do the work that needs 
to be done.  He will do the right thing."

"Yeah," Doggett said, his smirk turning into a wry smile.  
"I think he will."  And then he reached to his belt, pulling 
the open cell phone off its clip and showing its display to 
McShane, making sure the man knew that their conversation 
had been monitored the entire time from inside the apartment, 
that Kirsten and Craig had heard it all.

McShane paled, and for the first time, Doggett saw genuine 
shock and anger in the man's eyes.  "What have you done?  
How dare you!  How dare you interfere in our-"

"In your lives?" Doggett asked calmly, returning the cell 
phone to his belt, cutting the connection as he walked 
towards the door.  "Consider this a lesson in your own 
limited awareness, Thomas.  And maybe a little taste of 
that personal cost you dismissed."

McShane stood, his hands clenched into tight fists, and 
for a moment Doggett wondered if there would be violence.  
But then McShane forced himself to a semblance of calm, 
walking towards the door.  Without a word, he walked past 
Doggett and pushed his way into the apartment, knowing 
that his family was waiting for him.  Doggett followed 
him, closing the door behind them.

When they walked into the living room, they saw Kirsten 
sitting on the floor with Rhiannon, absently playing with 
her daughter, Craig standing over both of them with a 
slight smile on his lips.  For a moment, Doggett wondered 
if Monica had chosen not to go along with his plan, after 
having argued with him against it.  But then he saw the 
stain of tears on Kirsten's cheeks, and realized that 
Craig was looking at his sister and niece as though for 
the last time.

McShane apparently noticed it as well, and he looked away 
from his daughter to look into Craig's accusing eyes.  "So 
you're leaving?"

"I am," Craig said with conviction.  He looked back down at 
Rhiannon.  "I thought of staying.  I considered staying for 
Kirsten, and for Rhiannon.  To make sure that little girl 
had the chance to grow up normally.  But that would still 
be reacting to you, doing things your way.  And I need to 
go find a life for myself, away from what happened here."

McShane did not even try to argue.  Instead, he looked 
towards Kirsten  "And you?  What are you planning to do?"

"I've been thinking about that ever since you admitted what 
you had done," Kirsten said, not taking her eyes off Rhiannon.  
"I thought about what you said, about how you could help 
the people here find a normal life.  I thought about how 
much you've helped me, and I have to admit, it is something 
you could do.  But if you did, then I'd have to wonder why 
you helped me, and why you stayed with me all this time."

"I love you," McShane said, his voice full of passion.  
"I love you, and I love Rhiannon.  You know that."

"I know the man who lived in that apartment and slept in 
my bed," Kirsten replied.   Finally she turned to look at 
him, and there was an unexpected steel behind her eyes.  
"I don't know the man who risked my life and our daughter's 
future."

McShane visibly sagged.  "Then you're leaving?"

Kirsten shook her head.  "No.  At least, not today.  I want 
to see if the man I knew still remains.  But don't think 
I won't leave in a second if I have any reason to think 
our lives are in danger."

McShane nodded, a relieved smile on his lips.  Then he 
turned a cold stare towards Doggett.  "Are you quite 
finished?"

"I think we're done here," Doggett said with a satisfied 
smile.

"Then kindly leave my town," McShane said with an identical, 
but much less sincere, smile.  "Unless you intend to 
continue the investigation?"

"No, we're leaving, as you know," Monica interjected.

"And you're not the only one who knows better than to push 
the issue," Doggett reminded him.  "Despite what you may 
think, I have learned a few lessons here and there.  There 
will be no further investigation."

"Then please leave," McShane repeated, his smile gone from 
his face.  "Now."

Doggett and Monica stepped towards the back door, but Craig 
called to them.  "Please, wait one moment.  I wanted to give 
you something, Agent Doggett."

Doggett turned, and Craig handed him a piece of folded paper.  
"What is it?" Doggett said, opening it and scanning the words.

"I thought about what you said, back at the hotel," the 
younger man, a trace of his old smile returning.  "I'm going 
to leave and go out there, somewhere, and find out what life 
brings me.  Maybe I'll find something worth fighting for.  
Maybe I won't.  Maybe the search will be enough."  He pointed 
to the paper.  "I intend to live by those words.  I thought 
you should see them.  Maybe they'll mean something to you."

Doggett glanced at the words again, smiled to Craig, and 
then slipped the paper into his jacket.  "Thanks.  Good luck."

"Maybe we'll meet again sometime," Craig said.  "Take care."

Doggett nodded his thanks again, and then walked out of 
the apartment with Monica in silence.

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

****

Besides the liberties taken with the interpretations of 
current quantum mechanics, the theory you mention relies on 
a concept known as superstring cosmology.  In this conception 
of the universe, there are at least ten dimensions in the 
universe, and all but the familiar four of space and time 
are folded into each other in a way that makes them 
undetectable to our current science.

While this theory has been able to explain the disparities 
between Einstein's general relativity and quantum mechanics, 
by its very nature it cannot be proven by conventional 
scientific tests, and by the same token, cannot make 
predictions based on a clear extension of current scientific 
knowledge.  As with the theory of quantum "entanglement", 
superstring cosmology cannot be proven or disproven.  It 
lies within the realm of scientific conjecture.

Taking this into account, if neither quantum "entanglement" 
and superstring cosmology cannot be deemed conclusive, any 
theory based on taking those concepts as solid fact must 
also be considered questionable and unproven.

I hope that this is the answer you were looking for, but 
if not, then I hope that this does not complicate your case 
more than necessary.

Good luck, Agent Doggett.

D.S.

***

For much of the ride to the Newark airport, there was only 
the beat of the rain against the windshield.  Finally, as 
Doggett veered onto the offramp from the Turnpike, Monica 
looked up from the copy of his report that she had been 
reviewing.

"I can't believe you're going to turn this in," she muttered, 
tossing it onto the back seat with disgust.  "How can you 
pretend that none of it happened?"

"None of what?" Doggett replied, followed by a long sigh.  
"When all is said and done, think about what we can actually 
prove happened.  What we actually saw, what we actually can 
say we know we experienced.  McShane said it himself.  He was 
a master manipulator."

"That doesn't mean that you can say that none of it happened," 
Monica objected.

Doggett checked one of the giant signs over the access road, 
and then took a sharp turn towards the terminal they needed.  
"Some of it I mentioned," he pointed out.  "But only the 
things we know we actually saw, the things we have some kind 
of proof for.  Otherwise, we weren't left with much."

"What about those shadows that we saw moving like they were 
going to attack us?  Or the way the trees seemed to thicken 
in certain places?"

"Some kind of suggestion, planted by McShane," Doggett said 
evenly.  "We didn't see those things until after he mentioned 
them, and after he got Craig to say it too.  As far as the 
trees go, well, it's easy to notice odd things like that 
in the woods."

"It was a park, not woods," Monica said with a frustrated 
tone.  "I just can't believe you're going to claim that this 
was some kind of conflict between two competing cults, with 
one trying to disrupt the rituals of another.  It's dishonest."

"It's a rational explanation based on the facts," Doggett 
countered.  "All of the murdered teens were killed under 
circumstances that suggest some form of mental manipulation, 
maybe some kind of post-hypnotic suggestion.  Fell had his 
ritual symbols, McShane had his.  We were manipulated to 
help McShane stop Fell's ritual, in the same way that Fell 
manipulated members of the local law enforcement and 
prominent members of the community."

"It's glossing over the truth and you know it," Monica 
replied.  The car came to a stop in front of one of the 
large sliding doors at the terminal.  When Doggett didn't 
respond, Monica shook her head and opened the door, stepping 
into the rain.  Doggett popped the trunk where her bag was, 
and got out of the car to help her.  Moving his own bag 
and pulling out hers, he handed it to her, looking her in 
the eye.

"I know what you're saying, Monica," he said softly, some 
of the pain of the days before returning to his eyes.  "But 
the fact is, when all is said and done, only so much can go 
into the official report."

"Because you're afraid to face it?" Monica challenged.

"Because that's the way the X-Files work," Doggett countered.  
He flashed her a smile.  "Like I said, I have learned some 
things along the way."

Monica looked as though she wanted to press her argument, 
but then she relented.  "I hear you.  Just don't think this 
is the end of it."

"It wouldn't be you if it were," Doggett said, his grin 
widening.

Monica laughed, despite herself, pulling the strap of her 
bag over her shoulder.  "Look, call me if there's any more 
trouble, OK?  You need me, you call."

"I will," Doggett promised.  "Take care."

Monica turned and walked through the sliding doors, looking 
back to wave once before disappearing into the crowd.  For 
a moment he wondered if he should check to see if her flight 
was delayed or canceled due to the weather, considering 
whether he should stay and keep her company if it had been, 
but then he remembered his promise to Skinner.  There were 
several meetings with his name at the top of the guest list, 
and a long drive and a longer night before then.

Having had enough of the rain, Doggett got back into the car 
and drove off into the approaching night.

***

December 2, 2000

9:53 AM

Washington, D.C.

"So this was some kind of pissing contest between two 
hypnotists?"  Deputy Director Kersh looked over the edge 
of the file folder, waiting for Doggett to reply.

"Basically, that's correct," Doggett said with an apologetic 
shrug.  "It's not uncommon, according to Agent Reyes, for a 
cult leader to possess abilities that appear to be some form 
of mind control or brainwashing.  We saw something similar 
in the Tipit case earlier in the year.  Under the right 
conditions, cult members would be willing to do some of the 
most disturbing things, even kill themselves or allow 
themselves to be killed."

Kersh nodded absently.  "Agent Reyes...she was the expert 
in ritualistic crime?"

"Yes, sir," Doggett confirmed.  "I've consulted her in 
the past."

"Yes, I recall," Kersh muttered.  "And though I'm not 
entirely pleased about the fact that you called her in on 
this, given the sensitivity of the assignment, I can see 
why you made that call."  He tossed the file onto his desk 
with a smile, one Doggett had seen before with the same 
insincerity.  "You know Mulder would have never had the 
presence of mind to actually call in an expert on the 
subject."

"I'm sure you're right," Doggett replied evenly.  He glanced 
at the file.  "Was there anything else, sir?"

Kersh regarded Doggett, and then shook his head.  "No, 
nothing else, Agent Doggett.  Good work.  This is the kind 
of work I expect to come out of the department, now that 
less...discriminating minds are no longer influencing 
investigations."

Doggett smiled, and rose to his feet.  "If that's all..."

"Yes, I'm sure you want to get some rest.  Take the day 
off, John."

Doggett let his smile linger for a moment, and then walked 
out of the door without another word.  Skinner was waiting 
in the hall outside, and walked him towards the elevator.

"Things went well, I assume?" Skinner said in a concerned, 
low murmur.

"Well enough," Doggett agreed.  He looked over his 
shoulder, making sure Kersh was not somehow standing behind 
them.  "Like I said when we talked it over this morning, 
there were some other things I might have mentioned, but 
as I told Agent Reyes, it was a better move to just stick 
to the facts, such as they were."

They stepped into the elevator, and once it was obvious 
they were alone, Skinner turned towards Doggett with a 
frown.  "You never said what you thought about what happened.  
You admitted that there were other things you could have 
said in that report.  Should I take that as meaning that 
there were some things you couldn't explain, but you 
couldn't deny?"

Doggett shook his head.  "To be honest, Walter, I'm 
still thinking a lot of it over.  There's a part of me 
that wants to take what's in that report and believe it 
without question.  But I think I'd always have my doubts."

"So, what then?" Skinner asked, his voice low as the 
elevator doors opened.  He stepped out, looking back at 
Doggett.  "Where do you go from here?"

"Take it one day at a time, I suppose," Doggett answered 
with a shrug.  "Just like I have every day since."

Skinner nodded, not having to ask what Doggett was referring 
to.  "See you tomorrow?"

"Yeah," Doggett replied, letting his exhaustion finally 
show in the roughness of his voice.  "See you tomorrow."

The elevator doors closed, continuing its journey down to 
the parking garage.  Alone with his thoughts, Doggett reached 
into his pocket and pulled out the paper Craig had given 
to him, reading the broken lines of the poem again:

How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!
As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains; but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. 

Death closes all; but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks;
The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs; the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends.
'T is not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down;
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are,--
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. 

"One day at a time," he whispered to himself, sliding the 
paper into his pocket once more.  The elevator doors opened, 
and he stepped out into the light, suddenly eager to find 
what the hour would bring.



THE END