From: "aka "Jake"" Date: Tue, 25 May 1999 07:44:53 -0400 Subject: Fan Fiction Submission Title: Madjahando (1/1) Author: aka "Jake" Rating: R (Language, Violence) Classification: X (X-File) Spoilers: Pilot; The Host; Triangle (only vague references to each) Keywords: Summary: "The Adventure of a Lifetime" awaits Mulder and Scully when they travel to investigate a series of bizarre killings at MarMar North Country Camp, a remote hunting camp in northern Maine's timberland wilderness. Madjahando by aka "Jake" Disclaimer: The characters Fox Mulder, Dana Scully and Walter Skinner are the property of Chris Carter, FOX and 1013 Productions. No copyright infringement intended. This is for fun, not profit. Northwestern Maine October, 1682 Bernard LaBossiere lay in a frosty clearing beside the Shishiqua River, the pain in his leg unrelenting. Despite the autumn chill, deer flies pestered him, buzzing above a pool of blood that grew thick and black around his feet. "Georges," Bernard groaned. "Georges, you can not leave me here to die," he begged. Georges Vaillancourt ignored the urgent plea and continued to pile beaver hides onto the backs of two patient horses. "Georges! Please! You are my best friend." "That may be, Bernard, but I have wanted you dead for many years." Georges Vaillancourt glanced at the man dying on the ground. He felt no pity. "You set that bear trap yourself. You trod on it yourself. I consider it to be Fate at work and I take no blame in it. You are a vile man, Bernard. I ain't sorry to see your spirit leave this life." Georges turned back to inspect the knots securing the bundles of pelts to the saddles. "Goodbye, Bernard LaBossiere," he said and mounted his horse. Turning southward, the second pony in tow, the Frenchman disappeared into a forest of maple and spruce. "No! Georges! Come back!" Bernard's panicked cry echoed through the still woods. "Georges!" Bernard struggled to sit. His muscled arms trembled with effort as he once again tried to pry open the jaws of the bear trap, but the sharp metal teeth remained deeply embedded in the flesh of his shattered leg. "Georges!" he screamed, his chafed breath fogging the October cold. "I do not want to die here! I will not die!" The pale afternoon sun, lodged low in the sky, cast a blond light across the flat river but provided no warmth. Exhausted, Bernard eased onto his side and closed his eyes. He had the smooth features of his Indian mother and the French inflection of his father. "I damn you, Georges Vaillancourt. I damn you." As life seeped from Bernard, he opened his eyes to stare dully at the river. His breathing turned shallow, halting and catching in his throat. It became an effort to make his chest rise. "Humphf!" Dimly he realized the sound was not his own struggled breath. With effort, he shifted his gaze. A powerful bull moose stood shoulder deep in the icy river water not ten yards away and surveyed Bernard on the bank. Bernard looked weakly into the enormous creature's liquid, dark eye, and focused on the bottomless, black pupil. Bernard LaBossiere could no longer feel his own body. "Nodah." Bernard thought he heard the moose say in the Abenaki language of his mother. "Awanigia?" he managed to ask the great animal. "Madjahando." -------------------------------------------------------------- Misery Township, Maine Present day David Vaillancourt and Jason LaClair shuffled through the autumn leaves, following Misery River southward through the lowland located between Misery Ridge and Williams Mountain. They were scouting moose trails in anticipation of next week's moose hunt. "You ever been moose huntin' before?" eighteen-year-old Jason asked his young cousin. "Course. Lotsa times. I helped Uncle Martin cut and haul a moose out of Moxie Gore last year. That bull dressed out at 1200 pounds. We're still eatin' meat from that tough old moose." "Can't believe I lucked out and got me a moose permit this year. I'm gonna bring me back the biggest friggin' bull in the state!" Jason laughed. "Look, Jay! Just look at the size of this track!" David squatted to examine a two-pronged print pressed deeply into the mud. He ran his finger around the impression. "Track's fresh. This mornin', maybe," he said excitedly. "Whooh! I can't hardly wait for next week! Look, there's another one." David pointed and took a few excited steps before abruptly stopping, the smile vanishing from his face. "What the...? Oh my god, it's...a dead man!" The boys cautiously approached the crushed and battered body of a man dressed in camouflage, a compound bow slung over his shoulder. "Musta been huntin' deer. God, he's all stove up. Whaddaya suppose happened to him?" Jason asked, fear in his voice. "I ain't got no idea, but we better call the warden." -------------------------------------------------------------- Greenville, Maine 2:32 PM Special Agent Dana Scully drove a rented four-wheel-drive Jeep north on Route 15 while her partner, Special Agent Fox Mulder, read aloud from the colorful brochure in his hands. "'The Adventure of a Lifetime! A vacation to remember awaits you at MarMar North Country Camp, a four-season wilderness paradise featuring world class bear hunting, deer hunting and moose hunting.' Notice a theme here, Scully?" "Hmm," was her non-committal response. "'MarMar North Country Camp is located on 800 privately owned acres, 10 miles west of Maine's Moosehead Lake,'" he continued to read. "'The Camp is nestled in a magnificent wilderness area among the pines and cedars overlooking scenic Misery Lake...'" " Lake?" she emphasized the word with apprehension. "That's what it says. 'The endless miles of primeval forest and shadowy bogs have lured hunters in search of trophy game for centuries.'" "Primeval forest. Shadowy bogs. Sounds like your kind of place, Mulder. Is there anything I'll enjoy at MarMar?" "Yes, as a matter of fact, there is. 'MarMar North Country Camp offers complete, modern comfort in a rustic wilderness setting. The Camp's accommodations include large rooms, private baths and hot showers, cleaned daily.'" "That sounds better than most of the motels you check us into." "Nothing's too good for you, Scully. Listen to this. 'Meals are prepared in our large country kitchen and served with care, family style. Our spacious modern dining room with large stone fireplace is the perfect spot for the telling of tall tales.'" He looked at her pointedly. "Too bad we don't know any," she flashed him a conspiratorial smile. In their six years together as partners working in the FBI's X-Files division, they had investigated a multitude of mutants, monsters, ghosts and aliens. The X-Files were filled with cases of paranormal and unexplained phenomenon. He laughed. "I dunno, Scully. Our Flukeman story might be considered a tall tale," he said, referring to the sewer-dwelling creature they had hunted during their second year together. "I'm thinking I should've had him stuffed and mounted on my livingroom wall." "He would definitely match your decor, Mulder." Mulder returned to the brochure and quoted, "'Towels and linens are supplied; you need only bring yourself and your favorite gun.'" Scully snorted. "The only thing I needed to pack was my weapon? No sweaters, no thermal underwear, no hiking boots? No hat, no gloves, no blaze-orange jacket? You could have saved me a lot of time if you'd read me the brochure back in DC. Blaze-orange is impossible to find in Washington, by the way. Tell me, Mulder...just what brings us to this neck of the northwoods?" "Scully, don't you ever review the case notes I conscientiously and considerately prepare for you?" "With all that packing, who had time?" "We're here to investigate the deaths of two hunters." "Hunting accidents hardly qualify as X-Files, Mulder. The cause of death is usually pretty obvious." "Not in these two cases. Marty Vaillancourt, our host at MarMar North Country Camp," Mulder waved the brochure at her, "claims both victims were murdered by the spirit of his great, great, great, great...eight greats in all...grandfather's best friend and worst enemy, Bernard LaBossiere." "I see," Scully said carefully. "Actually, Mulder, I don't see. That's a ridiculous claim." "Why's that?" he asked seriously. Scully opened her mouth, then closed it again without speaking. Shaking her head she considered how Mulder, once again, was proposing an outlandish speculation supported only by paranormal hearsay and wishful thinking. Mulder was known around the Bureau by the nickname of "Spooky," both because of his uncanny ability to process information and leap ahead to plausible and implausible theories, and because of his interest in extraterrestrial phenomena. He opted for his own instincts and methods, instead of following investigations by the book. Whenever he would race to the most unlikely conclusions without considering the more obvious possibilities, Scully would fall back on her medical training and analyze the situation as a scientist, insisting on factual evidence. Her adherence to the rigid laws of cause and effect and his belief in the truth of the unexplainable often put the two agents at odds. Scully slowed the car, pulled to a stop in front of Moosehead Lake Outfitters and shut off the engine. Squinting through the dusty windshield, the agents observed a crowd gathered on the sidewalk in front of the small store. Protesters carried signs that read: "Stop the killing!" and "End the slaughter!" "Pro-Lifers?" Scully asked. "Only if the life has four legs, antlers and a small squirrel-friend wearing a leather hat with ear flaps and goggles." Mulder caught sight of a third sign that proclaimed: "No More Moose Hunting in Maine!" A vocal group angrily taunted the protesters from the front steps of the store. "Tree-huggers! Go back to southern Maine and take your goddamn environmental, animal rights, communist crap with you!" yelled an irate young man. Mulder and Scully stepped from the car and headed toward the store's entrance. Mulder was glad they were dressed in jeans and sweaters instead of their usual suits. Even so, he felt obviously out-of-place. He reached protectively for Scully's arm and guided her through the shouting assemblage and into the shop. Scully headed down an aisle lined with bottled water, snacks, film and first aid supplies, while Mulder paused to study the hunting knives on display under the glass counter. "Can I help you?" Scully heard a friendly clerk asked him. She could hear his soft murmur as she scanned the shelves, picking up several granola bars, a bag of sunflower seeds for Mulder and a large tube of Neosporin. she thought with a half-smile. Actually, they were well supplied for a trip to the isolated Maine woods. They had FBI-issue compasses, flares and flashlights. She carried her Sig Sauer and knew Mulder holstered his own Sig P228 at his side, as well as a .380 caliber 230 strapped to his ankle. As always, she had restocked her medical kit before leaving DC. She had packed plenty of warm clothes and hoped Mulder had had the sense to do the same. Sometimes in his overzealous excitement to pursue a case, he would forget the mundane necessities of life. Scully refused to play mother to Mulder, however. She returned to the front of the store and laid her items on the counter. The clerk was handing Mulder a bag. "What did you get?" Scully asked him. "I got you a little present, Scully." He smiled a boyish grin, reached inside the bag and pulled out a bright, blaze-orange cap. "To go with your jacket." "Nice, Mulder, you shouldn't have. What else is in the bag?" He looked sheepish. "A hunting knife," he said in a soft voice. She rolled her eyes. "It's a Buck 180DL with a 7-inch blade. I needed a new one, Scully. I did. That Flukeman really dulled the old one. You don't realize how tough fluke skin is...hey, what's all the Neosporin for?" he asked in an accusing tone, changing the subject. "You bought a hunting knife, Mulder. I'm just preparing for the inevitable." Scully handed the clerk some bills from her wallet in exchange for her purchases, then headed for the car. Although MarMar was located only fifteen miles northwest of Greenville, it was separated by dense Maine forest. Scully was forced to follow Route 15 north along the shoreline of Moosehead Lake, skirting the timberland wilderness to the west. The road bent nearly back on itself in the little village of Rockwood, no more than a collection of a half dozen houses, leaving the agents with the feeling of going in circles. Heading into the glare of the setting sun, Scully nearly missed their turnoff several miles later. Mulder kept count of the logging roads they passed as they wound their way south between the mountains. "This is where we turn, I think," he said uncertainly. "The roads all look alike. How can you be sure?" He shrugged. She took the corner and shifted the Jeep into four-wheel-drive. The narrow road was unpaved and deeply rutted. The Jeep lurched over tree roots and stones. The sun had set and the blackness was complete, pierced only by the vehicle's headlights. The two beams jostled and lifted, lighting the lower branches of the tall, thick pines, unable to penetrate far into the solid stand of trees. Eventually a weak light appeared ahead, glowing faintly in the distance. Scully directed a relieved smile at Mulder as they approached an assortment of log cabins perched between the forest and a small lake. The largest structure was clearly marked "MarMar North Country Camp." -------------------------------------------------------------- MarMar North Country Camp Misery Township, Maine 5:40 PM When the agents stepped through the lodge's front door, they were greeted by the general dining room clamor of silverware and the smell of grilled steaks and coffee. Twelve scruffy, bearded faces looked up from their plates and ceased their conversations in order to inspect the newcomers as they stood at the threshold. "ZZ Top convention?" Mulder leaned down and whispered in Scully's ear, then added, "You could cut the testosterone in here with a Buck 180DL." In her years as an FBI agent, Scully had calmly faced some of the most vile and menacing monsters, human and otherwise. But this group unnerved her. Uncharacteristically, she took a step back and reached behind her for Mulder's arm. "You must be Fox and Dana," a large-boned woman with graying blonde hair and a radiant smile called out to them from across the room. "Come on in. They won't bite. Well, most of 'em, anyway!" she laughed and winked at the burly man holding his mug under the spout of her coffeepot. The woman finished filling the man's cup then walked toward them, her hand extended. "I'm Peggy Vaillancourt, proprietor of this humble establishment. You're just in time for dinner. Pull up a couple of chairs and I'll bring you out some plates. Tonight we got deer steaks, potatoes, squash, turnip, biscuits and canned fiddleheads. I put those up myself last spring. Blueberry cake for dessert. You can settle into your cabin after you eat. Come on, sit yourselves down," Peggy urged. Mulder pulled out a chair beside a hulking, dark-haired young man and gestured Scully to sit. She gave the stranger a quick insecure smile, then kept her eyes glued to Mulder as he took the seat across from her. A large, balding man in his early fifties held out a beefy paw to Mulder. "Rick Stewart," he identified himself. He pointed to the young man beside Scully and added, "This is my son Rick, Jr. We call him Richard, just to distinguish between the two of us." Richard reached across the table to shake Mulder's hand and offered Scully a friendly "Hi. Nice to meet you. Where are you two from?" "DC," Mulder replied. "I'm Fox Mulder and this is Dana..." "Here's your plates and silver. Pass them steaks this way, John," Peggy appeared again at Scully's elbow and yelled down to the far end of the table. "We got hungry folks over here." A platter of venison made it's way down the long table, followed by a big bowl of steaming mashed potatoes and a plate of what Scully guessed were fiddleheads. "Butter's right there in front of you, Honey," she indicated to Scully. "Coffee?" "Yes, thank you," Scully managed before Peggy hurried off toward the kitchen again. "We're up from New Jersey," Rick supplied in an amiable tone. "This is our first moose hunt," he added excitedly. He turned to Mulder. "How about you? You got any experience hunting big game?" "Yes, actually. A few years ago I bagged a three-hundred pound fluke..." "Mulder!" Scully cleared her throat. "Uh...pass the potatoes, please." He lifted the bowl toward her, then dubiously spooned a few fiddleheads onto his own plate. A muscular man beside Richard noticed Mulder's reluctance to try the coiled green vegetables. "Those fiddleheads are excellent. Don't be afraid to try 'em," he prodded. Mulder lifted a forkful into his mouth, registering the mushy texture and earthy taste on his tongue. "Peg chooses only the freshest, most tender fiddleheads. Takes her forever to skin all them little caterpillars." Mulder blanched. His eyes widened and he swallowed hard, trying not to lose the contents of his contracting stomach. The nearby men guffawed at his obvious discomfort and surprise. "Marty, when are you gonna' stop torturin' folks with that old prank," Peggy had returned with fresh biscuits and a deep bowl of squash. She turned to Mulder, "Them's only vegetables, Fox, not caterpillars. Marty's just tryin' to get a rise out of you. Dana, Fox, meet my not-so-better half, Marty." "Pleased to meet you," Marty boomed, laughter still lighting his features. "Welcome to MarMar. Don't forget to register for the raffle. The winner gets a free two-week stay next hunting season." "Feeling lucky, Mulder?" Scully asked. After dinner, Peggy showed Mulder and Scully to their cabin. She briskly led them through the tidy rooms, pointing out where to find clean towels and explaining how to work the finicky hot water valve on the shower. "We serve three meals a day," she informed them. "Breakfast is at 5 AM so the hunters can get an early start, lunch is at noon and dinner at 5:30 in the evening. You can come to the kitchen anytime to get coffee or a snack. Help yourself to whatever's left over in the fridge. Just be sure to clean up after." "Thank you, Peggy," Scully smiled at the likable older woman. "By the way, you're aware we're FBI agents investigating the recent deaths of two hunters, aren't you?" "Yes. I didn't want to mention it in front of the guests. Marty and I depend on their business to make enough to live on through to next hunting season. We'd appreciate it if you could keep a low profile while you're here. No need to scare paying customers away with stories about hunters being found dead in the woods nearby. Tomorrow morning, Marty and the warden will take you out to the place where the last body was found. Warden'll be here around 9 o'clock." "Thanks," Scully said again and walked Peggy to the door. "Let me know if you need anything, Honey. Marty and I live up over the lodge. One or the other of us is always around." -------------------------------------------------------------- MarMar North Country Camp Misery Township, Maine 7:10 AM A bright sunbeam spread across Scully's pillow, waking her from a dreamless slumber. Through her open door, she could hear Mulder's gentle, even breathing in the next room. Quietly, so as not to wake him, she slipped out of bed and pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweater. She ran a comb through her hair, stepped into her boots, then tip-toed through the livingroom and silently out the front door. Outside, the chilly air was sweet with the smell of cedar. She folded her arms across her chest and headed for the lodge, hoping to locate a cup of hot coffee. The lodge's dining room was empty when she got there. No trace of the hunters' early morning breakfast remained, other than the lingering smell of sausage and French toast. Scully walked through to the kitchen and discovered it, too, was already wiped cleaned, the dishes washed, the food put away. She found the coffee urn, lifted a mug from an upper shelf and poured herself a steamy cupful. The dark liquid smelled rich and strong. She peeked in the refrigerator and removed a carton of cream to lighten her drink. After returning the carton to its rightful spot in the refrigerator, Scully carried her mug to the kitchen's back door and stepped out onto the sunny porch to enjoy a view of the lake. Out on the porch Peggy sat in a rocker, peeling apples. "Good morning, Dana. Come sit down. Join me. You sleep alright?" she asked. "Yes. I did, thank you. Very well. I see we missed breakfast." Scully sat in the empty chair at Peggy's elbow. "Yeah. The boys left nearly an hour ago. Can't hold 'em back from the hunt," Peggy laughed. "There's plenty of food left over though. You and Fox can help yourself whenever you're ready." She offered Scully a crisp slice of apple. "Thanks." Scully bit into the sweet MacIntosh. "Mmm. This is good." "Wait 'til you taste 'em in one of my pies." Peggy smiled. Scully wrapped her chilled fingers around her warm mug of coffee and looked out across the sparkling lake. Miles of wilderness forest spread out around them. The only sound came from Peggy's paring knife. No traffic. No television. Nothing but a stillness so complete it raised the hairs on Scully's arms. "Why did you choose to live out here, Peggy?" Scully asked without judgement, curious. "So far from everything, so isolated." Peggy chuckled. "It's hard to explain to people who are used to the city, everything conveniently nearby. But, look out there, beyond the lake. The hardwood trees are on fire with fall color, no buildings, no signs to ruin the view. The air is so fresh and clear you can see Mount Kahtahdin over to the east, fifty-five miles away, like it was sitting next door. The water in that lake," Peggy pointed her knife out in front of them, "is so clean, the bass can't hide from you. And, if you plan ahead a little, everything you need is right here." "It is lovely. But don't you get lonely with no one around?" "Honey, who could get lonely?" Peggy laughed. "Even after all the hunters return to Massachusetts and New Jersey, we still got neighbors, family and friends. They're just spread out a little more than you're used to." Scully nodded, sipping her coffee, then asked, "Are Maine winters as harsh as they say?" "Nine months of snow and three months of bad sleddin'? Well, that's the rumor we perpetuate to keep the tourists from moving up here permanently. That and story that blackflies are so big and fierce in the spring, they can carry you away!" She smiled at Scully. "The fact of the matter is, Honey, that a Maine winter is one of the most beautiful sights a human being can witness. There's a strength to it that takes your breath away. The snow piles deep on the ground. The pine trees look like they're hugging themselves, their branches bent tight to their trunks, weighted with ice. The snow lasts so long into the spring you just about think it'll never go away. And then, suddenly it does. The ice goes off the lake, the apple trees bloom, birds start singin', and you could weep from the beauty of it. To be honest, I feel sorry for people who live in a place where the climate is always the same. They miss the severe magnificence of winter and then the aching loveliness of the summer that follows. We get to appreciate that here every year, and if we're lucky, maybe eighty or ninety times in our lives. It's such an overwhelming feeling. I always wonder why someone would choose to go their whole life and not know that experience." Scully considered the older woman's words; she wondered what it would be like to stop chasing mutant creatures, phantoms and aliens and live in a peaceful place like this. "You make me want to move here permanently." "I did mention the blackflies, didn't I?" Peggy teased. "Hey. Good morning," Mulder offered sleepily from the kitchen door, a mug of coffee in one hand and a plate of cold French toast in the other. "That for me?" Scully asked and he held the plate lower so she could lift a slice off the top of the stack. Mulder moved to the seat on the other side of Peggy. "What does "MarMar" mean?" he asked, his voice still husky from sleep. "Is it an Indian word?" "Hell, no," Peggy laughed. "It's short for Martin and Margaret!" -------------------------------------------------------------- MarMar North Country Camp Misery Township, Maine 9:09 AM Marty and the local game warden, John Randall, stood beside four ATVs and explained to Mulder and Scully how to run the vehicles. A numbing wind blew from the north, reddening their cheeks and noses and whipping Scully's coppery hair wildly about her head. Vivid swatches of yellow and orange leaves swirled through the biting air, ripped and tossed from swaying branches. "We can get close to the site on the four-wheelers. We'll have to walk the last couple of miles. Fox, Dana, I'm glad you're both wearing blaze-orange. Moose hunting season starts today. The state of Maine issued permits to fifteen hundred lucky yahoos who are out walkin' the woods with 'moose fever' this week," Marty warned. "Is 'moose fever' a medically recognized malady, Scully?" Mulder asked with a smile. Marty answered for her. "It is in these parts, and it's highly contagious. You catch it and you'll be back every season, dressed from head to toe in camouflage with two rifles mounted in the back window of your pickup, I guarantee it," he said with humor. "Oooo. Sculleee, that would be a great look for you. Not that your blaze-orange ensemble isn't sexy in it's own way," he tugged playfully at her sleeve. "We're wearing matching outfits, Mulder," she pointed out. "Yeah, thanks for the call." The foursome mounted their all-terrain vehicles and started the engines. Marty took the lead. The path they traveled was no more than a deer trail. The four-wheelers rode easily up and over the lumpy forest floor, around blowdowns and boulders. Marty guided them deep into the lowland between Misery Ridge and Williams Mountain. They followed Misery Stream north into a sump of bursting cattails, their noisy arrival startling a flock of Canadian geese into a raucous flurry of ascending wings. Marty cut his engine and dismounted his ATV. "We have to go on foot from here," he explained. "The bog's too swampy for the four-wheelers. We'll hike up the stream about a mile and a half, then cross to the other side. The second body was found just west of the crossing." "Who found the body?" Mulder asked. "I did, two mornings ago," Marty replied as he picked his way around the marsh. "My nephew found the first one last week." "You told the warden that the victims were killed by a spirit?" Scully noticed the warden smile at her reference. "Yeah, I told him that, but John doesn't really believe me." "Can you tell us more?" Mulder prompted. "The story goes that Georges Vaillancourt, my great, great, great, and a helluva lot more greats, grandfather left his friend Bernard LaBossiere to die in these woods back in the late 1600s. LaBossiere had stepped into one of his own bear traps, badly breaking his leg. Georges left him because LaBossiere wasn't a very nice man. He had killed several men, one a relative of Georges, for no more reason than to watch them die." "You think Bernard LaBossiere's spirit haunts these woods?" Mulder asked. "Yes, I do. The story that's been passed down through the generations says a moose took the spirit of Bernard LaBossiere into itself. The moose was Madjahando, which translates into 'evil power' in the traditional Abenaki language. Madjahando has been responsible for many deaths over the centuries, accountin' for this place bein' called 'Misery.'" "That sounds a bit fantastic," Scully commented, thrusting her hands deeply into her jacket pockets to keep them warm. "Yeah, I know it does. But I believe it and a lot of other people around here believe it, too. John here is just not one of 'em." The warden chuckled. "Sorry to call your beliefs into question, Marty. But it just doesn't strike me as being a very likely explanation for the deaths of these two hunters." "Tell them about the bodies, John. Tell them in what condition they were found." "Well, they looked to be badly beaten." "Trampled, John." "That's not conclusive yet, Marty. They still need to be autopsied. I understand that's your expertise, Agent Scully. I've scheduled a bay for you at Greenville Memorial Hospital this afternoon, if you're interested in doing the autopsies yourself." "Yes, I am, Warden." Scully rushed to add. "Can you imagine it, Fox?" Marty speculated. "What it must have been like, to have your spirit devoured by an immortal creature of evil? To sense yourself loosen from the physical material of your flesh, separate from your bones? Your soul stripped from your body only to look out through the eyes of Madjahando at your own motionless corpse?" Marty strode to a narrows in the stream and jumped across. Scully touched Mulder's arm and he paused to lean close. "Too many tall tales by the large stone fireplace, Mulder?" she whispered. "Over here," Marty called. "This is where I found the body." He pointed to a depression in the vegetation, blackened by dried blood. Mulder moved closer and squatted. There was a lot of blood on the ground. Scully pulled on a pair of latex gloves and scooped a sample into a plastic evidence bag. "Look at this, Scully." Mulder pointed to the large tracks, obvious in the deep mud. "Warden, what type of animal would make these prints?" "Moose. A large one." -------------------------------------------------------------- Greenville Memorial Hospital Greenville, Maine 1:33 PM Scully, dressed in green hospital scrubs, adjusted her safety glasses and pulled a mask over her nose and mouth. In front of her on a stainless steel table lay a naked body, its torso broken open, smashed and splattered with dried gore. She double-checked her tray of instruments and reread the victim's chart. She turned on the recorder and spoke clearly into the mike. "Scott L. Vaillancourt, white male, age 56, 196 pounds. Evidence of widespread trauma to the abdomen, chest, neck and face." She paused to lift the man's arms and inspect his hands. "Defensive cuts, abrasions and contusions on the forearms and palms." She pressed a gloved finger into the corpse's cheekbone. "Facial bruising and probable fractures to the superior maxillary, malar and masseter. Fourteen-centimeter cut on left cheek. The nasal bone is broken and pushed deeply into the ethmoid." She lifted the bloodied upper lip. "Chipped incisor." Moving down the body, Scully continued her cursory inspection. "Left clavicle is crushed. Ribs four, five and six are broken, costal cartilage is torn from the sternum. The superficial fascia of the abdomen has been pierced and the small bowel is ruptured and protruding. Bruises on the thighs. Abrasions and contusions on both knees. Right femur, tibia and fibula are broken. I'll begin with a Y-incision." -------------------------------------------------------------- Scott Vaillancourt residence Big Squaw Township, Maine 1:33 PM Mulder knocked again on the front door and listened for movement inside the house. His dark trenchcoat flapped and billowed behind him in the frigid wind. He had changed into a suit and tie for this afternoon's interviews with the families of both victims, before dropping Scully off at the hospital. The agents planned to meet later in the day to compare notes. After several minutes, the door swung open to reveal a middle-aged woman with red-rimmed eyes. "Yes?" she scrutinized him doubtfully. "I'm Special Agent Fox Mulder," he held up his badge, "with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I'm looking into the death of Scott Vaillancourt. Are you Mrs. Vaillancourt?" "Yes, I'm Judy Vaillancourt," she responded with a care-worn nod. "May I speak with you for a few minutes, Mrs. Vaillancourt?" he asked, his tone low and gentle. She hesitated, then stepped back, allowing him to enter. She ushered him into the livingroom where, to his amazement, at least a dozen large deer heads looked down at them from the pine-paneled walls. Above the granite fireplace hung the enormous brown head of a bull moose, its imposing antlers nearly five feet across. "Please, have a seat. Could I get you some hot tea?" she asked politely. "No, thank you. I'd like to ask you a few questions..." Mulder carefully stepped around a massive bear rug, its four black paws splayed wide on the floor and its snarling open jaws stretched out toward the fireplace. "Uh...about your husband." He glanced at the animal's long white teeth before taking a seat. Mrs. Vaillancourt sat primly across from him, brushing an imaginary piece of lint from her dark skirt. She switched on a nearby lamp and Mulder noticed the lamp's base was made from several intertwined deer antlers. "Mrs. Vaillancourt, your husband was an experienced woodsman?" "Oh my, yes! He and his cousin Marty hunted together for years. They're both registered guides, you know." "Your husband was Marty Vaillancourt's cousin?" Mulder asked, surprised. "Yes. Distant cousins really, once- or twice-removed, but cousins. They spent a lot of time together, particularly during hunting season. Scott and Marty just loved being out in the woods. Are you sure you wouldn't care for some tea, Dear?" "No, thanks. When did you last see your husband, Mrs. Vaillancourt?" "Two days ago. Scott was an early riser, so we didn't have much of a conversation. He just kissed me good morning when he got out of bed and told me he'd be back before supper. Marty found him later that day, dead." She removed a crumpled tissue she had tucked into her sleeve by her wrist and dabbed at her teary eyes. "Did your husband and Marty plan to hunt together that day?" "No, I don't think they were together. Why do you ask?" "Mrs. Vaillancourt, did your husband ever discuss the story of Bernard LaBossiere?" Mulder skirted her question. "Oh, that crazy old tale. Scott and Marty swore it was true. They told it to all the tourists. Made them both sound like fools. I ask you, what sane person would believe a moose could be possessed by an evil spirit?" -------------------------------------------------------------- Greenville Memorial Hospital Greenville, Maine 3:14 PM Scully spooned a mouthful of fat-free yogurt out of the small container she'd purchased in the hospital cafeteria. She had returned to the autopsy bay and stood in front of the battered body of Peter Trask, inspecting his gaping wounds while casually licking another bite of the creamy snack off her spoon. His body had been found nearly a week ago; the corpse was partially decomposed. She set down the yogurt and tied on clean scrubs. "Peter M. Trask," she said into the mike. "White male, age 32, 168 pounds. Evidence of widespread trauma to the abdomen, chest, neck and face. Yada, yada, yada." She refitted her mask and goggles and snapped on a fresh pair of latex gloves. She picked up a scalpel. "I'll begin with a Y-incision." -------------------------------------------------------------- Peter Trask residence Moxie Gore Township, Maine 3:14 PM The bedlam of barking dogs and children's shouts reached Mulder the moment he opened his car door. By the time he reached the cinder block that served as the mobile home's front step, the frenzy from the aging trailer had grown to a roar. He rapped loudly on the metal doorframe. Thinking that his knock couldn't be heard above the din inside, Mulder pounded several times with the heel of his hand. "I'm comin'! Keep your goddamn shorts on!" a female voice shrilled over the clamor. The door opened a crack and a young woman with crinkled blonde hair and a baby on her hip peered out. "Who the hell are you and whaddaya want?" she asked gruffly before turning to swat at a boy who sat on the floor pulling hard on the tail of a scrawny cat. "Cut it out, Petie! I told you to leave that frigin' cat alone!" She glared back at Mulder. "Well?" The baby stuck a dirty finger into its wet nose and regarded Mulder with its wide, blue-gray eyes. "I'm Special Agent Fox Mulder with the Federal Bureau of Investigation," he held up his badge and the baby reached for it "I'm looking into the death of Peter Trask. Are you Mrs. Trask?" "I wouldn't be livin' in this shithole with all his goddamn kids if I wasn't." She appeared irritated, but Mulder guessed she always looked that way. "May I speak with you for a few moments, Mrs. Trask?" "Do I look like I got plenty of spare time to be wastin' away talkin' to a government man?" A child screeched somewhere in the back of the trailer. "God it, Billy, leave your sister alone! And come get these friggin' dogs outta here!" the woman yelled over her shoulder. She looked back at Mulder and sighed. "Kids! Come on in, mister...what'd you say your name was again?" "Mulder. Agent Mulder." "Oh yeah. Special agent, you said. What makes you special, Agent Mulder?" she cackled at her own joke, exposing a missing front tooth. She turned from the door and pulled out a chair for him at the kitchen table. Using her free hand she brushed some Cheerios off the seat. "Take a load off, special Agent Mulder." "Mrs. Trask..." "Cindy. My name's Cindy." "Uh...Cindy...I'd like to ask you a few questions about your husband." "So get on with it," she urged him and hitched the baby off her hip and into her lap. It extended a sticky hand toward Mulder and gurgled, "Dadadadadadadadada." "Can you tell me what happened to your husband, Mrs...uh...Cindy?" "He got himself killed in the woods, the friggin' fool. Left me high and dry with all these damn kids." "When did you last see him?" "Last week. He was all excited about gettin' a moose permit this year. We was gonna feed these kids all winter on that moose meat. Damn. Don't know what I'm gonna do now. You got a cigarette? I'm dyin' for a cigarette." "No, sorry. Did your husband know this area well? Had he hunted here before?" "Jesus H. Christ. Course he hunted here before. We've lived here all our lives. He and his Uncle Scott was plannin' to moose hunt together this season." "His Uncle Scott?" "Yeah. Scott Vaillancourt. He and his wife Judy live over to Big Squaw. Come to think of it, you should talk to Scott if you wanna know more about Pete. Pete spent more time with his friggin' uncle than he spent here at home with his own wife and kids." The baby started to whimper. "Mrs. Trask...uh, Cindy...Scott Vaillancourt was found dead two days ago." "Are you shittin' me?" she asked, genuinely surprised. "No one tells me nothin'. I'm always the last to know. So Uncle Scott's dead. Ain't that somethin'. Takes the cake, 's'all I can say." "I have one more question, Cindy. Did Pete ever talk to you about Bernard LaBossiere?" "HA! Please! That's the oldest horseshit story in this stinkin' part of the state." -------------------------------------------------------------- Greenville Memorial Hospital Greenville, Maine 5:54 PM Having completed the second autopsy, Scully carefully wrapped the body of Peter Trask. Intent on her task, she didn't hear Mulder push through the double doors of the autopsy bay. He paused at the threshold, reassured by the familiar curve of her back as she bent to tie the final knots. He had watched her perform her gruesome job countless times and was always struck by the contrast between the wrecked bodies she opened and her own perfect beauty. Her back still to him, she straightened and inspected her work. Satisfied, she peeled off her gloves and removed the mask that dangled around her neck, then tugged at the elastic that constrained her ponytail. Her glossy hair fell loose and she casually ran her fingers through it. Mulder was mesmerized. She stripped off her scrubs and tossed them high over the corpse and neatly into the bin on the other side of the table. "Two points." "Jesus, Mulder!" she spun around, startled. "When did you come in?" He crossed the room to stand close to her. "Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," he gave her an apologetic half-smile as he pushed an errant wisp of red hair off her brow. She looked up at him through her lashes. "You don't scare me, Mulder." "Hmm. No? I'll have to try harder," his voice rumbled low in his chest. He placed his hands on her shoulders and straightened to his full height, towering over her. Scully flushed, suddenly aware of how handsome he appeared. "You still don't scare me, Mulder." "I don't know about that, Scully. You look a bit nervous to me." He tightened his grasp on her and leaned in more closely. They were only inches apart. She breathed in the scent of his skin, felt the heat of his body. she wondered, realizing he making her nervous. "Mulder," she warned and arched an eyebrow at him. Staring directly into her eyes, he rested his forehead against hers. She could feel him exhale warmly against her face. "Mulder?" "I'm going to buy you dinner," he said, letting go of her shoulders and standing back. "You're buying me dinner? You never buy me dinner, Mulder. Now I scared." She reached up, brushed a lock of his hair aside, and rested the back of her hand against his forehead. "You don't have a fever." "Stop that," he laughed. "Mulder, as your doctor, I'm only trying to find out what's wrong with you. You're obviously delirious." "Deliriously glad you have all your front teeth." He smiled remembering his interview with Cindy Trask. A look of confusion settled in her eyes. "Never mind, Scully. Just let me buy you dinner." -------------------------------------------------------------- The Landing Restaurant Greenville, Maine 6:34 PM The Landing Restaurant was crowded. A busload of cheery white-haired ladies poured into the little dining room, just ahead of Mulder and Scully. The elderly women chattered noisily about their daylong tour. They had traveled the back roads of Maine to view the vivid autumn foliage; the fall colors were at their peak in startling shades of red, yellow and orange. A young waitress led Mulder and Scully to a small table by the window and apologized for the hubbub. "Leaf-peepers!" she explained. "Leaf-peepers?" Mulder asked. "Yeah. They come from all over to look at the trees. Had a couple in here yesterday from Hawaii! Can you imagine leavin' an island paradise to come here to look at falling leaves? To each his own, I guess. So, what can I get you folks?" "Since he's buying, I'll have the lobster," Scully ordered with satisfaction. "A big spender! Better hang on to him, Honey," the waitress laughed and turned to wink at Mulder. "How 'bout you, Mister? Lobster for two?" "No, thanks. I'll have the prime rib, extra rare." "Okey-doke. Be up in a few minutes." The girl tucked her pad into her apron pocket and headed for the kitchen. "What'd you find out today?" Scully asked him once the waitress was out of earshot. "That Scott Vaillancourt is Marty's cousin." "Marty from MarMar?" "Yup. And that Peter Trask is Scott Vaillancourt's nephew." "Small world. Think it's just a coincidence?" "I don't know. It's possible. Half the people up here are named Vaillancourt." "Didn't Marty's nephew find the first body?" "Yeah. David Vaillancourt." "This is confusing." Scully turned to gaze out the window overlooking Moosehead Lake. A waning October moon sent a finger of golden light across the dark water. "Both victims were experienced woodsmen and avid hunters," Mulder continued. "You should have seen Scott Vaillancourt's livingroom. Somewhere in this town lives a very rich taxidermist." "What about the Trask home? Any wildlife there?" Mulder thought again about the tiny trailer teaming with kids and dogs. "Plenty, Scully, but all still living." She shot him a perplexed look. "Don't ask," he told her. The waitress soon returned with a tray of food. She set out salads and rolls before placing a very rare steak in front of Mulder. "We knocked the horns off and yelled fire," she laughed. She then set a huge, two-and-a-half-pound, steaming red lobster in front of Scully. The young waitress slipped a lobster cracker and pick out of her pocket and onto the table, and then tied a disposable plastic bib around Scully's neck. "Enjoy!" she called over her shoulder as she hurried back to the kitchen. Scully yanked a claw off her lobster and cracked it open. She dipped the firm white meat into a bowl of melted butter before popping the sweet chunk into her smiling mouth. "This is good, Mulder," she said between bites. "Are you sure you don't want to try it?" She held out a buttery piece of the seafood. "No, thanks. It looks like something left behind by the Mother Ship. 'Phone home,'" he mimicked, picking up the empty shell of the claw and pointing it at the moon. "At least it won't attract vampires," she indicated the bloody juices puddled beneath his steak before spearing another slippery morsel with her lobster pick. "So, what did the autopsies show, Scully?" "Both the bodies were badly beaten. They presented similar injuries: facial and upper body lacerations, perforation of the abdomen, fractured and broken limbs, crushed facial bones. Both men fought back against their attackers; they each had defensive wounds on their arms and hands. Until the lab results are back, I'd have to say they bled to death." "What was the murder weapon?" "I couldn't determine the exact nature of the weapon used to inflict the injuries. I am certain it was not a knife, gun, baseball bat or bare hands." "A lead pipe? Candlestick?" he suggested. She smiled. "I don't think so. A crowbar maybe. Something fairly sharp would be needed to punch such a substantial hole through the fascia of the abdomen and extirpate the internal organs. The small bowels were ruptured...mashed, really. Looked like hamburger." She took another bite of lobster. "Uh...Scully, I'm trying to eat here." He regarded his bloody plate and set down his fork. "Is it possible the victims were trampled to death by a...large animal?" "You're not suggesting a possessed moose killed these men, are you, Mulder?" "I'm not ruling it out. Is it possible a moose, an ordinary moose, could have inflicted those types of injuries?" "I suppose it's possible...but not plausible. Why is it you never go for the simple answer, Mulder? Although..." she hesitated. "What, Scully?" "I did find some odd looking fibers on both of the victims. Some kind of hair or fur. But Mulder, both victims were avid hunters. You said so yourself. It's likely the fur came from their last successful hunting expeditions, not their killer...if both men were even killed by the same person. And I do believe the killer was a person." "My money's on the possessed moose theory," he persisted and she rolled her eyes. "I sent the fur samples to the state crime lab in Gray for identification. I also took scrapings of a caliginous substance that appeared to be blood from under the victims' fingernails and sent that to be analyzed, along with the blood we gathered at the scene. The results will be faxed to me at the hospital tomorrow. The hospital lab is running a toxicology screen on the victims' blood. That will be available in the morning." Mulder pushed away his plate and dug in his pocket for his wallet. He removed a few bills, dropped them on the table as a tip for the waitress, then pulled out his credit card to pay for their dinner. "You're an expensive date, Scully." "This was a date?" she feigned indignation. "Do you usually talk about corpses on your dates, Mulder? No wonder you never see the same girl twice." "Scully, my last date was so long ago, by now she probably is a corpse." The two agents left the cozy din of the Landing Restaurant and sauntered down Main Street toward their car. The night sky was clear, cold and teeming with stars; the Milky Way curved over them like a bridge. They walked past the post office, a gift shop, its windows filled with tourist items, and a laundromat. All were closed and dark. In contrast, two blazing spotlights illuminated the side yard of the two-story building near their car. A crowd was gathered beneath a large blue and white sign that read "Frank's Meat Cutting: Specializing in Deer, Moose and Bear." Laid out in the lot were the gutted carcasses of thirty or more moose, great fur-covered mountains stretched side by side on the pavement, their dull eyes open and their dry tongues lolling crazily out of their mouths. "So many," Scully whispered, incredulous and awed by the sight. "Didn't moose hunting season just start today?" Overhearing her comment, a stout woman stepped close and informed Scully, "Hunting a moose is just like shootin' cows in a pasture. No sport in it at all. It's a disgrace. Ninety-five percent of the people who are issued permits take home a moose. The other five percent are so drunk, they're shootin' each other. Would you believe the Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife wants to up the number of permits they issue to two thousand next hunting season? That'll mean nearly five hundred more slaughtered moose every year. It's got to stop!" the woman said with vehement conviction and pushed a flimsy paper pamphlet into Scully's hand. "Come on," Mulder murmured, his fingers closing gently around Scully's arm. She continued to stare over her shoulder at the rows of dead animals as he smoothly steered her to the car. -------------------------------------------------------------- Route 15 Rockwood, Maine 8:03 PM Mulder drove the Jeep through mile after mile of unbroken blackness, heading west along the unlit road to MarMar. "Thanks for the lobster, Mulder," Scully murmured sleepily from the passenger seat, her eyes closed. "Jesus Christ!" Mulder cried out. Scully's head thudded against the side window as Mulder unexpectedly swerved the car. The Jeep lodged with a jolt, nose end in the ditch. In a single motion, Mulder unbuckled his safety belt and exited the car at a jog. "Are you alright?" she heard him yell, concern in his voice. She put a hand to her swelling cheek to check for blood. She was about to answer him with a yes when she realized he wasn't talking to her. She hurried to undo her own seat belt and join him at the centerline of the road. "Goddamnmotherfucker! You nearly ran me over, you shithead!" a lean, dark-haired man exploded at Mulder and balled his fists. "You coulda' killed me!" "Are you alright?" Mulder repeated, his tone unruffled in an attempt to allay the other man's anger. The scrawny man lurched closer to the agent until they stood nearly toe-to-toe. Mulder held out a hand to steady the smaller man. "Don't touch me, you goddamnnumbshit!" the thin man recoiled from Mulder's touch, his features crooked with rage. "Who the fuck do you think you are?" Without warning, he threw a hard punch, his bony knuckles connecting solidly with Mulder's jaw, sending the tall agent sprawling onto the pavement. "Federal agent!" Scully shouted, her weapon gripped at arms' length. "Step back! I'm armed!" As her authoritative command echoed against the nearby trees, the man froze. His eyes wide, he tried to locate her in the dark shadows. "Mulder, are you okay?" she asked her partner. "Yeah. I'm okay, Scully." Mulder stiffly picked himself up and rubbed his bruised jaw. "What's your name?" Scully demanded of the stranger. His eyes shifted toward the woods. "Don't move! Stay where you are!" She warned, stepping closer so he could clearly see her gun in the faint moonlight. "Jack LaBossiere, if it's any of your fucking business," the gaunt man spat at her. "Watch your mouth," Mulder warned, taking a firm hold of Jack LaBossiere's sinewy upper arm. "Why were you walking down the middle of the road in the pitch dark?" The smell of alcohol rolled off the skinny man. "I ain't got a car, fuckhead." LaBossiere tried unsuccessfully to wrench out of Mulder's grasp. "Get your fuckin' hands off me!" he screamed into Mulder's face. "I wanna know where you were going," Mulder said to the man. LaBossiere's frenzied movements abruptly ceased. He stood perfectly still and glared unblinking into Mulder's eyes. "I'm gonna fuckin' kill you, asshole," he whispered with disarming composure. "And after I'm done fuckin' the shit outta that goddamn little whore of yours, I'm gonna fuckin' kill her, too." Mulder's face flushed with anger. He stiffened, but before he could bring up his fist to strike LaBossiere, Scully spoke. "Let him go, Mulder." He hesitated, but didn't loosen his handhold on the man's arm. "Mulder. Let him go. He's not worth it." Not taking his eyes off LaBossiere, Mulder roughly shoved the thin man away, releasing him. LaBossiere wasted no time moving to the side of the road and disappearing into the woods. From the dusky cover of the forest, Jack LaBossiere bellowed out at them, "I'm gonna fuckin' kill you both!" -------------------------------------------------------------- MarMar North Country Camp Misery Township, Maine 8:52 PM Scully emptied the ice tray into the kitchen's deep soapstone sink, generating a cacophony of shifting cubes. Mulder opened several drawers before locating a package of gallon-sized plastic freezer bags. He removed two and gave them to Scully. She scooped a few handfuls of ice into each bag. Knotting the bags closed, Scully wrapped each in a terrycloth dishtowel. She passed one cold, soft package to Mulder while lifting the other to her swollen cheek. "I thought I heard someone down he...Dana! What happened?" Peggy asked with shocked concern as she rounded the kitchen table and spied the large black and blue welt on Scully's face. Peggy eyed Mulder's profile with angry suspicion until he turned and she caught sight of his own bruised jaw. "Well, for goodness sake! Have a seat, I'll make us some tea and somebody tell me what happened." Peggy shooed the two agents away from the sink where she proceeded to fill the teakettle. Mulder heaved himself into a chair and placed the bag of ice against his jaw. "We met Jack LaBossiere," he told Peggy as she busied herself with the cups and saucers. "Jack hit Dana?" Peggy asked, incredulous. "I hope you beat him senseless, Fox." "That wouldn't have taken much of a punch. Actually, Scully's injury is my fault." A guilty look settled on his face. He reached apologetically across the table and gently brushed the backs of his fingers down Scully's unmarked cheek. "Your fault? Maybe you'd better start from the beginning," Peggy prompted and dropped a tea bag into each cup. "To avoid running over Jack LaBossiere, who was walking down the middle of the road in the dark, Mulder swerved the car into the ditch." Scully explained. "I hit my head on the window when we crashed. It wasn't Mulder's fault." "Where did all this take place?" "A few miles from Rockwood." "Rockwood? What was Jack LaBossiere doing on foot way out there?" Peggy asked. "He was drunk," Mulder informed her. "And Jack LaBossiere is not a very nice man when he's drunk." "Jack LaBossiere isn't a very nice man when he's sober either. Foul-mouthed idiot. Warden picked him up just a couple of weeks ago for huntin' deer out-of-season. Everyone knows Jack's responsible for killing the half-dozen tame deer that fed over at the Melansson's place, although no one could prove it. Terri Melansson's been puttin' out food for them poor animals for years. A person could walk right up to 'em and scratch 'em behind the ears. Wouldn't take much of a hunter to put that venison on the table. Anyway, Jack spent a couple of days in jail for resisting arrest. I heard that he swore at the warden all the way to the county courthouse." Peggy sighed with disgust. "So you've told me how Dana got her big bruise. How'd you get yours, Fox?" "I punched Jack's fist with my face." Scully shot Mulder a sympathetic look. Out in the diningroom, the lodge's front door opened and shut. A moment later, Marty appeared at the kitchen door, dried blood caking his chest and arms. "Marty, what happened?" Peggy rushed forward. "There's been another murder." Marty said, exhaustion evident in his voice. He wearily ran a hand across his forehead before opening the cupboard where the liquor was kept. He generously poured whiskey into a deep tumbler and swallowed it in one big gulp. "Who? Where?" Peggy gaped at him. "Rick Stewart, our guest from New Jersey. I found his body over near Rockwood." "You found his body?" Mulder asked. "How?" "His son Richard took me to the general area. They'd been huntin' along the river between Brassua and Moosehead Lakes early this mornin' and got separated sometime around mid-day. By late afternoon, Richard came back to MarMar for help. I notified the warden who joined Richard and me up in Rockwood. The three of us searched the woods, following the river for several hours before I spotted the body bent backwards over a blowdown, draped there in plain sight like a flag. Seemed purposeful, the position it was in." "Why do you say that?" "I've been huntin' for a lot of years. Everything I've ever killed has fallen to the ground, not ended up high over a half-tipped tree." "What time did you find the body?" Mulder pressed. "Couple of hours after sunset. Seven or seven-thirty, give or take. It took us awhile to carry the body out of the woods; Rick was a big man. The warden transported him to Greenville Memorial. Richard decided to stay in town. He's pretty shook up." "Can you take us out to the scene tomorrow morning?" Mulder wanted to know. "Yeah. Sure. Warden's hoping Dana will perform the autopsy tomorrow afternoon." "Of course I will. I needed to check in with the lab anyway." Scully rose from the table and carried the two ice packs to the sink where she dumped the melting cubes into the drain. Marty looked from Scully to Mulder, noticing their bruises for the first time. "What the hell happened to you two?" "Scully tried to get fresh with me. She wouldn't take no for an answer. I had to deck her," Mulder deadpanned. Marty's eyebrows rode up in surprise and he gave Scully a questioning look. "Nobody decks me and gets away with it," she said. -------------------------------------------------------------- Moosehead River, Rockwood, Maine 8:52 AM An unbroken overlay of low, gray clouds driven by a biting northerly wind pushed across the sky, spitting snow and obscuring the early morning sun. Scully tugged her knit cap lower over her chilled ears, the vivid blaze-orange color of the hat clashing wildly with her bright red hair that fringed its edges. She shoved her gloved hands into her jacket pockets for warmth. "This way," Marty directed, leading Scully, Mulder and Warden John Randall around a tangle of lowland alders and cedar. The foursome emerged on the south bank of Moose River, breathing hard from the assiduous hike. Each frosty exhalation was visible, briefly fogging the air before vanishing on an icy breeze. Looking downstream they were amazed to see a short, balding man in startling chartreuse earmuffs scribbling in a small notebook and pacing a path around the very spot they had come to investigate. "For chrissake, Perkins, you're contaminating a crime scene," the warden admonished as he approached. "I don't see any police tape marking this area off limits, Warden," the man responded in a high-pitched tenor, adjusting the perch of his glasses on his wind-chapped nose. He looked quizzically at Mulder and Scully. "Are these the FBI agents I've heard about?" "Heard about from whom?" Mulder asked. "Tut, tut, Agent Mulder. I can't divulge my sources. That's confidential information. However, let me introduce myself. Harlan Perkins, PI." The little man extended a delicate, calfskin-covered hand. "You're a private investigator?" Scully raised an eyebrow. "Twenty-five years of experience, specializing in worker's comp fraud and financial investigations. More exciting cases like this one..." Perkins gestured toward the bloody ground, "are few and far between, I'm afraid." Perkins paused, eyeballing Scully's and Mulder's bruised faces before asking, "Were you two in an accident?" "Tut, tut, Mr. Perkins. That would be official FBI business," Mulder mimicked Perkins reedy voice and wagged an index finger at the spectacled man. Marty snorted. "I imagine you've trampled over any evidence we might have found here, Harlan," Marty sighed. It was true. Harlan Perkin's fresh footprints obliterated the older tracks, razing an expanse of ground around the fallen tree where the body had been discovered the evening before. "How'd you learn the particulars of this murder, anyway? Like where it happened, for instance?" "That would be confi..." "...dential," Mulder finished for him. "Unless you can give us a better answer than that, I'll have to place you under arrest for the murder of Rick Stewart." "What? Me!?" Perkins squeaked. "Why would you think I killed anyone?" "The fact that you know exactly where the murder victim was found makes you a prime suspect." "That's ridiculous." "Is it? Murderers are known to return to the scene of their crime. I don't see anyone else here." "Just because...this doesn't mean...I, uh...you're bluffing." "Cuff him, Scully." Scully reached inside her jacket, withdrew a pair of handcuffs and dangled them in front of the PI. Perkin's eyes widened in horror. "Alright, alright. I picked up Marty's radio call to the warden on my CB last night. For goodness sake, if you want to keep something secret, don't broadcast it to the world on a public frequency!" Perkins advised, rolling his eyes. "After overhearing your call, I drove along Route 15 until I found the warden's car and Marty's pickup at the roadside. I parked my own car several yards back, turned off my headlights and watched as Marty, the warden and another man carried the body out of the woods." "Perkins, I want you to stay out of the way on this," the warden counseled. "Your interference will only slow the investigation. Agents Mulder and Scully don't need to be tripping over you while they conduct their business." The diminutive man looked hurt. "Well, maybe I shouldn't with the investigation by telling you who I saw walk out of the woods only minutes after the warden and Marty drove away." Scully jangled the handcuffs. "Obstructing an ongoing Federal investigation is punishable by..." "Okay, okay, Agent Scully!" Perkins said quickly, understanding her intent. "I saw Jack LaBossiere." Mulder and Scully exchanged glances. "He was acting very strangely, if you ask me. He kept looking back over his shoulder, like he was being followed. He looked very nervous. He crossed the road and disappeared into the woods on the other side." "What time was that?" Mulder asked. "Eight o'clock, I think." "That would have been just before Scully and I met LaBossiere on the road last night." "Maybe it was eight-thirty," Perkins amended. Mulder leveled his gaze on the smaller man. "Which was it? Eight or eight-thirty?" "I'm not sure. Does it matter?" "If it was eight-thirty, LaBossiere could have been looking over his shoulder for Scully and me. He had threatened to kill us both." "Oh, my. Interesting. And if it was before eight, he may have just left the scene of the murder. Correct, Agent Mulder?" Perkins pursed his lips. "Yes. So which was it? Eight or eight-thirty?" Mulder demanded with exasperation. "I told you, I don't know. It was too dark to see my watch and I was not going to turn on the car's dome light, giving away my position, just to check the time." Mulder sighed. "Scully, I'm going to have a chat with Jack LaBossiere while you autopsy Rick Stewart." "I don't think you should go see LaBossiere alone," Scully warned. "I'll go with Agent Mulder," Perkins piped eagerly. "No, I'll go," the warden stated firmly. "You are not to get involved in this, Perkins." "But I can help. Let me help. Please?" Perkins begged. "Are you heading back to Greenville by any chance, Mr. Perkins?" Mulder asked. "Agent Scully could use a ride to the hospital." Scully shot Mulder a withering glare that he pretended not to see. "Oh, I'd be thrilled to give you a lift, Miss Scully. It is Miss, isn't it, not Mrs.? I'm single myself, you know. My car is this way." "Thank you, Mulder. I'll see you later," Scully said through gritted teeth and smiled tightly. He knew he was in trouble. Before she moved off to follow Perkins, Scully nonchalantly reached down and grasped the flesh of Mulder's upper thigh sharply between her fingers. She pinched painfully hard. With satisfaction she watched him wince and grunt softly before she let go and joined the little PI. -------------------------------------------------------------- Greenville Memorial Hospital Greenville, Maine 1:24 PM Harlan Perkins assailed Scully with an interminable, explicit description of his favorite Somerset County insurance fraud case, not pausing once in his narrative during the entire thirty-mile drive to Greenville. When he finally pulled his car to a stop in front of the hospital, Perkins placed a humid palm on Scully's knee, waggled his eyebrows and told her "This is your lucky day." She removed his hand and gave him the arched-eyebrow, what-the-hell-do-you-think-your-doing glare she usually reserved for Mulder. Perkins failed to grasp her meaning, much as Mulder often did, leaving Scully to wonder at the failed effect of her expression. Not deterred in the slightest, Perkins asked Scully if she'd go out with him to dinner and a movie after she finished the autopsy on Rick Stewart. She stared at him open-mouthed for a full minute before she could think of anything to say. "Well, it's just...I...uh...don't think..." she stammered, not really wanting to hurt the PI's feelings but knowing for certain she would not be going on a date with him. "Oh, if you're already involved with someone else, I'll understand," Perkins offered, disappointment palpable in his tone. "That's it," she said too fast. "I'm involved. With someone else. Yes. Someone else is who I'm involved with." He nodded solemnly. "Agent Mulder?" "Hmmm," she managed. "I'll step aside then, Dana. I have no intention of invading another man's territory," he said and her eyebrows shot up. "Although, you would be worth fighting for." "No! Don't do that. There's no point. Really. My heart...is lost. To Mulder. To Fox. I call him Fox. I...I gotta go. Now." She opened the car door nervously and stepped out onto the curb. She hesitated before turning to face him through the open door. "Thank you, though...for the ride." With a rush of relief, she walked briskly to the hospital entrance and hastily went inside. Scully considered being furious with Mulder for foisting her off on Harlan Perkins. But she frankly forgot her ire after being handed the reports from toxicology and the Maine State Crime Lab. She skimmed the results on her way down to the autopsy bay. The hospital's toxicology screen indicated nothing out of the ordinary. Levels of cortisol and adrenaline, stress hormones that flood the body in response to extreme fear, were elevated, but that was to be expected in the victim of a violent death. The state lab data was more interesting. The fiber analysis confirmed that the hair samples were from North American moose. Oddly, both samples came from the same moose. The blood collected from beneath the victims' fingernails was also from a moose. The report's explication listed the blood contained, among other things, a prion similar to particles present in animals infected with a family of chronic wasting disorders called transmissible spongiform encephalopathies, a variant of which is mad cow disease. Scully pulled out her cell phone and punched in Mulder's number. She waited impatiently through three rings. "Mulder," he answered, a crackle of static fracturing his voice. "It's me," Scully replied. "Where are you?" "Somewhere west of Misery Township. About a mile from Jack LaBossiere's place. Scully, I can barely hear you." Cracks and snaps interrupted his speech. "Mulder, look for venison or moose meat while you're at Jack's. Bring back a sample." The phone sputtered loudly in her ear. "Did you hear me, Mulder?" "Yes. Deer and moose meat. What's up, Scully?" "I'll explain later." -------------------------------------------------------------- Jack LaBossiere's residence Misery Township, Maine 1:44 PM Mulder and Warden Randall approached Jack LaBossiere's small cabin on foot, leaving their car parked out on the main road. Two dusty wheel ruts divided by an overgrowth of late-blooming asters and ragweed led them to the front stoop of Jack's shabby camp. The house tilted precariously underneath a stand of giant pines and stingy oaks, its windows taped over with several layers of torn, foggy plastic in an effort to keep out the cold. A thin malamute-wolf hybrid, its stringy ribs visible beneath matted fur, strained at its chain as the men approached. The dog growled a low warning and the two men stopped just short of its reach. "Jack?" the warden called, "Come out and talk." "Who the fuck's askin'?" came the reply from inside the cabin. "John Randall." "I don't know any fuckin' John Randall." "Sure you do, Jack. You swore at me all the way to the county courthouse in Skowhegan just two weeks ago. I'm John Randall. Warden John Randall. Any of this ringing a bell with you, Jack?" "No! Now, get the fuck off my property!" The warden glanced sideways at Mulder and shrugged. "He must be drunk. He's known me for years." "Let me try to get him out." Mulder said. He turned toward the house and raised his voice. "Jack LaBossiere, I'm an agent with the FBI. I'm conducting a Federal investigation. Step outside, sir, to answer some questions. Now." The front door was thrown open, slapping loudly against the doorframe. The dog flinched at the sudden noise. Jack LaBossiere stood unsteadily just inside the threshold, a shotgun twitching in his right hand. "Put the gun away, Jack," the warden insisted. "Get...the......off...my...land!" Jack yelled and tried to bring the gun up to his shoulder, but the motion put him off balance. He staggered, dropping the firearm onto the dusty ground at the foot of the steps. "Leave it!" Mulder demanded, his own weapon immediately drawn and aimed at LaBossiere's narrow chest. The scrawny man blinked unfocused eyes at the barrel of Mulder's gun. He swayed uncertainly before lurching back into the house, yanking the door shut behind him with a slam. Mulder and the warden heard the snick of the door's deadbolt as it slid into place, locking them out. "Unless you plan to arrest him," the warden advised, "I'd suggest we come back with a warrant, and try again. Hold on a minute." The warden squinted past the house. "Well, looky there," he tipped his head toward a rickety shed in the side yard. Three gutted deer carcasses hung upside down behind the partially closed shed door. "Don't need a warrant if the criminal evidence is in plain sight," the warden grinned at Mulder. Giving LaBossiere's dog a wide berth, the men moved across the yard to enter the shed and inspect the deer. The warden stuck his index finger deep into a bullet hole in the shoulder of one animal. "I don't believe gun hunting season starts until the first of November," he smiled. "Let's go get Jack." The two men knew they couldn't get past the dog at the front door so they circled around the back of the cabin. They discovered the back door wide open and traded disappointed looks. Mulder scanned the surrounding forest, but nothing moved in the dense undergrowth of the trees. He pulled his weapon and cautiously entered the house. It took only minutes for Mulder and the warden to search the two tiny rooms. LaBossiere was gone. Mulder holstered his gun and sighed. "You want to help me haul those deer carcasses back to the car?" the warden asked, a sympathetic expression on his face. "Sure. Scully asked me to pick up some venison. I wonder if six-hundred pounds will be enough?" -------------------------------------------------------------- Greenville Memorial Hospital Greenville, Maine 4:24 PM Scully peered deep into the exposed abdominal cavity of Rick Stewart's body, her masked nose only inches from his pulverized liver. She prodded the dark organ with her forceps and frowned. A minute tuft of furry material was embedded in the crushed structure; she teased it loose with the steel pincers and lifted it onto her tray for later identification. This third autopsy had revealed little more than the previous two. The wounds were nearly identical, with one exception. On Rick Stewart's upper thigh, she had discovered a six-inch bruise in the exact shape of a two-pronged hoof. Scully could hear Mulder and the warden talking even before they entered the autopsy bay. "Hi, Honey. I'm home," Mulder called from the doorway. He hoped she wasn't still mad about the Harlan Perkins thing. "Did you bring some venison from Jack's place?" she asked without looking up, her voice muffled behind her mask. "Yes, indeedy." "FedEx it to the Maine State Crime Lab, will you?" When he didn't move, she turned around to look at him. "The FedEx office closes at five, Mulder. You'll have to hurry." Mulder turned to the warden. "Does FedEx have a weight limit?" he asked seriously. John Randall laughed. "What's going on?" Scully scowled and pulled the mask off her face. "Scully, we brought back three entire deer carcasses. What is it you suspect is in the deer?" "T.S.E." "T.S.E.?" Mulder asked. The warden supplied an answer. "Transmissible spongiform encephalopathy. You think the victims were killed by a moose suffering from mad cow disease?" "No, I think they may have been killed by a person suffering from Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease, the human form of T.S.E. I think the killer may have contracted the disease by ingesting contaminated moose or deer meat." "Is that possible?" Mulder asked. "Yes, it is," Scully explained. "The disease agent is not a virus or bacterium, but a particle called a prion -- a kind of renegade protein that transforms normal proteins into abnormal, indestructible substances that create spongy holes in the brain. Prion diseases have been found in eighty-five species, passing easily between some animals. When a prion 'jumps' species, new T.S.E. diseases are created." "Scully, you said these prions are 'indestructible?'" "Seemingly so. When medical instruments contaminated with prions are boiled for thirty minutes, the prions remain infectious. When infected materials are incinerated, the prions contained in the ash remain infectious." "Scully, John and I handled those deer. Will we be infected?" "Not likely. Unless you bit them. To contract the disease, you have to ingest the meat. Although...some scientists have speculated that the disease can spread by contact with saliva or feces of infected animals." She regarded their worried expressions. "Maybe you should wash your hands," she suggested. The two men quickly moved to the sink and grabbed for the soap. Mulder looked over his shoulder at Scully and asked her, "What are the symptoms?" "Behavioral and emotional changes that mimic psychiatric disorders. Depression, difficulty sleeping, withdrawal, fearfulness, paranoia..." She narrowed her eyes at Mulder. "Hmmm. Could explain a lot." "Very funny, Scully." "An affected person also develops motor abnormalities such as difficulty maintaining balance. They experience pain when touched on the face, arms and legs. Published reports estimate that six to eight percent of people who are told they have Alzheimer's disease may actually have a form of Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease." Mulder and the warden exchanged glances. "Uh, Scully, Jack LaBossiere was exhibiting all those symptoms. We thought he was drunk." "That's what I thought, too, when we met him on the road last night. But after reading the report from the crime lab, I reconsidered. The lab analysis identified prions in the blood sample I sent down. Remember how violently Jack reacted when you grabbed his arm, Mulder?" Mulder rubbed his bruised jaw at the memory. "If he was suffering from Creutzfeldt-Jakob, your grip on his arm could have been excruciatingly painful to him. I think it's possible that Jack LaBossiere contracted Creutzfeldt-Jakob by eating contaminated venison or moose meat. That's why I wanted the sample." "Agent Scully, I've heard of the incidences of T.S.E. affecting wild deer and elk in Colorado and Wyoming, as well as in Saskatchewan, Canada. But that's a long way away. The deer and moose in this area don't migrate that far out of our region. How would they have become infected?" "It's possible the disease is being transmitted at artificial feeding stations set up by local residents. Mulder, do you remember Peggy telling us about a neighbor who had been feeding deer in her yard for years?" "Terri Melansson," the warden supplied. "I'm pretty sure LaBossiere jacked those deer of hers a couple of weeks ago." "Scully, Jack LaBossiere ran off into the woods before John and I could question him. We have to find him and bring him in. If he's suffering from this disease, he could be paranoid enough to murder anyone who crosses his path." Mulder hesitated. "Uh, Scully, I...uh...guess I have to say you were right on this one." Scully's eyes widened. "You're giving up your moose-possessed-by-a-spirit theory, Mulder?" He looked embarrassed. "Yeah, I guess so." "And you're saying that I'm right and you're wrong?" "Mmhm." "Damn!" she said. "That really makes me not want to show you this..." and she pointed to the hoof-print shaped bruise on Rick Stewart's thigh. -------------------------------------------------------------- MarMar North Country Camp Misery Township, Maine 5:06 AM Scully awoke to the shrill ring of her cell phone. she wondered as she stumbled across the pitch-dark bedroom, located her jacket and explored the depths of its pockets for the phone. "Scully," she answered when she finally found the phone and put it to her ear. "Dana, it's me. Harlan," a high-pitched voice informed her through a barrage of static. Scully tucked the phone between her chin and shoulder and slipped her jacket over her nightshirt. The floor was freezing against her bare feet. She looked at the digital clock glowing on the nightstand beside the bed. "Harlan, do you know what time it is?" she asked with irritation and pulled her jacket more tightly across her chest. She lifted one foot from the icy floor and placed its chilled sole against the warm, bare inner calf of her other leg. "Uh, no, I can't see my watch and I don't want to turn on the dome light in the car. It might give away my..." "Position," Scully finished for the PI. "Harlan, where are you and what are you doing?" "I'm on Route 15, about twelve miles west of Rockwood. I'm following Jack LaBossiere." The phone hissed and crackled. "Harlan, why?" Now she was alarmed. "I think he's the killer, Dana. I'm investigating." "Stay away from Jack LaBossiere. He could be very dangerous. Can you hear me, Harlan?" She waited through several seconds of clicks and snaps. "Harlan?" "Yes, I can hear you. Obviously he's dangerous if he's the killer. I'm going to find out. I was calling to ask you...oh my god!" After nearly a full minute of nothing but static, Scully heard Harlan scream. "What is it, Harlan? Harlan? Harlan!" Scully yelled into the phone, but the connection was broken. "Scully, what's going on?" Mulder asked from her door. He flicked on the light causing her to squint in the sudden brightness. "I think Harlan Perkins was just killed." -------------------------------------------------------------- Misery Township, Maine 6:06 AM Marty tried not to hit Scully's leg with the stick shift as he slid the old pickup into fourth gear. She crowded closer to Mulder on the passenger side of the small cab's bench seat. The aging engine groaned as Marty floored the gas pedal and managed to bring the vehicle's speed up to sixty-five miles per hour. They raced through the dark autumn pre-dawn, east along Route 15, searching through the dimness for Harlan Perkins' car. "There," Mulder exclaimed when the pickup's highbeams glinted off the chrome and reflective taillights of the white Dodge parked on the roadside. Marty hit the breaks, bringing the truck to a sudden halt and thrusting them all forward in their seats. Mulder flung his door open and scrambled out. Jogging directly to the automobile, he withdrew his flashlight and swept the car's interior with its beam. His light fell across the smashed body of Harlan Perkins, splayed open and blood-covered in the front seat. "Oh my God." Scully was at Mulder's elbow. "Holy Jesus Christ," Marty whispered from behind Scully and snaked an arm between the two agents to open the door. "No!" Mulder stopped him. "We'll need to fingerprint the handle. All the doors are shut. The killer must have touched at least one of them to get in or out of the car." "I'll radio the warden," Marty suggested. "He can contact the county sheriff's office in Skowhegan and wait here with the body until a deputy arrives. It'll probably take John about twenty minutes to get out here from Greenville. By then, the sun'll be up and we can go after the killer." Marty headed for the pickup and its CB radio. "Where will we look?" Scully asked. "That fresh trail through the underbrush would be my guess," Marty called back to her before reaching into the truck and flipping on the radio. Scully scanned the forest's edge for a sign that someone had passed through the dense vegetation and saw none. She shook her head and looked doubtfully at Mulder, who shrugged. "He's a registered guide, Scully. If he says he sees a trail, I guess he sees a trail." -------------------------------------------------------------- Misery Township, Maine Warden John Randall arrived just after sunup and stayed with Perkins' body and the car while Marty, Mulder and Scully set off through the woods. Marty followed a nearly invisible trail of snapped twigs and disturbed soil through the overgrown lowland backcountry. They hiked for several miles beneath a canopy of spruce and fir, heading deeper and deeper into the evergreen forest. A couple of times Marty doubled back, retracing a path they had already traveled, explaining to them that he had mistaken the trail signs which were scanty at best and crisscrossed with older deer and moose trails. Several hours in the cold, raw wind left their noses and cheeks chapped, their hands and feet numb. "We're nearly to Misery River," Marty informed them, although the trees were so thick, no indication of the waterway was visible. "If Jack is headin' that way, we should reach the stream in about another hour. You two need to stop and rest?" Mulder glanced at Scully and she shook her head no. "Let's keep going," Mulder confirmed. They could feel the gradual downhill slope beneath their feet as they continued toward the river. The spongy, needle-covered ground dulled the sound of their footsteps as they made their way between the giant pines. Mulder kept Scully between himself and Marty. He continuously scanned the woods on either side and behind him, alert for the smallest movement. The threesome could hear the river long before they could see it, its rush of icy water booming through the forest. At last, the trees thinned and they arrived at the curved and deeply carved gully of Misery River. The bank was steep here; the river swirled noisily around massive boulders. The thunder of water pounded in their ears. "Looks like he's headin' downstream," Marty yelled over the roaring river. They hiked another mile before the terrain flattened, the river widened and the tremendous crash of water was silenced. The trees were sparser along the low bank and they could see further ahead. Mulder spotted a flash of movement about two hundred yards downstream. Before he could open his mouth to alert the others, Scully shouted, "There he is." She and Mulder sprinted ahead of Marty, drawing their weapons as they ran. Before they were halfway to him, they recognized Jack LaBossiere. They quickly closed the distance between themselves and their quarry. "Federal agents! Stop where you are!" Mulder yelled out. LaBossiere looked over his shoulder in alarm and broke into a run. Mulder increased his speed, his long legs gaining easily on the smaller man. With LaBossiere only an arm's length away, Mulder tackled him, throwing them both roughly to the ground. Mulder pinned LaBossiere under his own heavier frame and waited for Scully. She was only seconds behind him, her handcuffs at the ready. Mulder twisted LaBossiere's arms behind his back and Scully snapped the cuffs around the skinny man's wrists. "Goddamnmotherfuckers!" LaBossiere screamed. "Let me go! It's comin'! It's comin'! Let me go!" Mulder hauled the scrawny man to his feet. LaBossiere's eyes were wild with fear. "Madjahando! Madjahando!" he raved over and over again until the repeated word became a continuous, unbroken chant. Mulder and Scully exchanged glances before Mulder tugged the jabbering man back toward Marty. "Mulder? Where's Marty?" Scully stood still and turned at the waist to look in all directions when they reached the spot by the river where they had left Marty only minutes before. Mulder twisted his head to look and listen for the man who had guided them to this place. "Marty?" Mulder yelled out across the tree-filled landscape. "Madjahandomadjahandomadjahando," LaBossiere chanted in a low voice. "Shut up!" Mulder demanded. "MARTY!" Mulder's voice echoed into the forest. "Shit," he whispered and looked at Scully. "Let's retrace our steps back upstream and see if we can find him," Scully suggested. Mulder hooked his fingers around LaBossiere's thin arm and pulled him along. For twenty minutes, they hiked back upstream calling out Marty's name. Scully stopped. "Mulder, it's nearly three o'clock. The sun sets in less than two and a half hours. Following the river upstream will take us further and further into the forest. We need to head the other way, toward Route 15." "Are you sure, Scully?" "Yes. I remember from the map that Misery River flows northeast into Brassua Lake, crossing Route 15." "But if we head upstream instead of downstream, won't we end up back at Misery Lake and MarMar?" "Only if we're on the south branch of the river. It's more likely we're on the north branch since we came in from the north. If we follow the north branch upstream, we'll end up somewhere in the swamp at the base of Williams Mountain." He nodded. "Okay, Scully. We'll head downstream. We can return tomorrow with the warden to search for Marty's body." "His body? How can you be sure he's dead?" "If he's alive, he'll find his own way out. If we have to come back for him, it's because he's dead." "Or injured." "Or injured," he conceded. They turned and headed downstream. LaBossiere continued to mutter "Madjahandomadjahandomadjahando" under his breath. An hour passed before Mulder halted at the edge of a small, grassy clearing beside the river. "Let's rest, Scully," he suggested. He pulled LaBossiere to a stop and sat him down. The man had finally quit babbling and had traveled the last couple of miles in silence. He didn't speak now either, but simply stared with glazed eyes at nothing. Mulder moved several feet away from LaBossiere and plopped down onto the dried grass. Scully lowered herself to sit cross-legged beside him. The wind had picked up and she lifted her jacket collar to protect her ears and neck, wishing she had remembered her hat. "I'm hungry," Mulder complained as his stomach growled. "Well, why didn't you say so sooner?" Scully pulled off a glove, reached into her pocket and withdrew several granola bars and the bag of sunflower seeds she had bought at Moosehead Lake Outfitters the day they had arrived in Maine. She tossed Mulder the seeds. His eyes widened. "Sculleee! You're my fantasy woman!" He beamed a smile at her, removed his own gloves and tore open the package. While he cracked his way through several seeds, Scully unwrapped a granola bar and took it over to LaBossiere who now lay on his side, his hands still cuffed behind his back and his knees curled up to his chest. "Jack? Would you like something to eat?" she offered and held the bar in front of his eyes. He didn't respond so she moved the bar closer, below his nose. "Jack?" He closed his eyes. She shrugged and bit into the bar herself, walking back to sit with Mulder. She handed him another of the snack bars and put her glove back on. Her fingers were numb from the cold. She shivered as another icy blast gusted over them. Mulder finished his granola bar and licked each finger with appreciation. He tossed a few more seeds into his mouth before slipping his gloves back on, too. He squinted into the wind at the shimmering river; his dark hair fluttered across his forehead. Pushing his hands into his pockets, he discovered the new hunting knife he'd tucked in there a couple of days ago. "Hey, my Buck 180DL," he announced and held up the knife for Scully to see. "Great. Now you can skin something for us to eat for dinner." "You shoot it, Scully, and I'll skin it." She scanned the trees. "You like squirrel, Mulder?" He shrugged. "How bad can it be? Probably tastes like chicken." "You ever eat a chicken raw?" she asked, reminding him they had no means to build a fire. He grimaced, and tossed the knife nonchalantly into the air so that it spun once and landed with its point stuck firmly in the ground a few inches from his leg. He pulled the knife free and flipped it again. Scully watched him toss the knife once more, hypnotized by the motion. A burst of wind whipped past them and Scully stood up to try to warm her legs and arms by moving around. She pulled Mulder's knife from the ground and dropped it into her pocket. "You're going to stab yourself in the leg, Mulder. I have no intention of carrying you out of these woods." She began pacing back and forth. "Scully, you're freezing." "I'm fine." She continued to pace, her arms tight across her chest, her hands thrust into her armpits. "Your lips are blue," he observed. She automatically pressed her lips together to hide them and to stop her teeth from chattering. "Come here." He unzipped and opened his coat, inviting her move next to him to share the warmth of his jacket and the heat of his body. She hesitated, glancing at LaBossiere's snoring form. Mulder encouraged her with a "get over here" motion of his head. She stared at his open coat and fleece-covered chest and considered. She approached him uncertainly and lowered herself carefully between his knees. He pulled his jacket closed over her and wrapped his arms snuggly around her. He flinched when the Sig Sauer tucked at her lower back poked sharply into him. "Ow. Scully, your gun..." He released his hold on her. "Sorry," she apologized and reached behind her to remove the weapon. She placed it on the ground beside them before he hugged her to him once again. She settled comfortably against him, relaxing as the warmth of his body radiated into her. Her shivering subsided. Mulder buried his nose in her hair, both to escape the biting wind and to inhale her sweet scent. He tightened his embrace and pulled her more firmly to him. As Mulder held her, she listened to his heartbeat and the sound soothed her nerves. Scully considered her partner. He was a paradox. He could be sullenly moody or boyishly playful, callously distracted or gentlemanly and attentive. He would listen to her intently one minute and ignore her completely the next. The fact that other people thought he was unorthodox, even crazy, didn't bother her; she enjoyed his quirky independence. She admired his quick, insightful mind, yet his stubborn single-mindedness could infuriate her. He monopolized all of her time, during work hours and beyond, occasionally causing her to regret her irregular social life, but more often, she couldn't imagine anyone with whom she'd rather be. Falling in love with Mulder had been so gradual, Scully had yet to recognize it. She felt it peripherally, vaguely, but didn't stop to clearly consider and explore her feelings. Her own heart was a thing, maybe the only thing, she never examined, never cared to analyze. Never dared, perhaps. So she was still unable to admit to herself, or to him, that she loved him, was in love with him. He, on the other hand, knew he loved her, had loved her since the first day she walked into his basement office. At the time, he had barely been able to conceal his startled expression of intense realization. He covered by acting cocky and obnoxious, pushing his feelings, and her, away. He was apparently successful. She didn't seem to like him much then. Maybe even disliked him a little. Or a lot. He had never been sure; she was as hard to read then as now. More recently, Mulder had told Scully he loved her, but she dismissed his confession. He decided to wait before telling her again, to give himself the opportunity to accurately discern her feelings toward him. He was afraid he would lose her if he pressed himself too persistently at her. If he stubbornly pursued her and she didn't share his adamant emotion, he was convinced she would go, vacating their office and his life. He would be left without her, and it was better to have her with him, loving him or not, than not to have her in his life at all. For most of Mulder's life, his unrelenting quest had been to find his missing sister and the truth of what happened to her after she disappeared so long ago. But somewhere in the last six years, his mission had metamorphosed into a silent quest to find the truth in Scully's heart, to keep her safe and to have her with him always. So while he waited patiently for her to indicate, one way or another, how she felt about him, he continued to watch her back, the one caring act he was allowed as her partner. Mulder listened as Scully's breathing became even, felt her chest rising and falling in steady rhythm beneath his arms. He knew she was asleep. He pressed his cheek against the glossy crown of her head and closed his own eyes, all at once overcome with fatigue. he thought as he, too, drifted into sleep. Mulder didn't sleep long, only about fifteen minutes. But when he lifted his head and turned to check LaBossiere, he was alarmed to find the man gone. "Scully, wake up," Mulder urged. She opened her eyes. "What is it?" "LaBossiere's missing." Mulder rose to his feet, pulling Scully up with him. Seeing no obvious clues where LaBossiere had lay sleeping, the two agents backtracked once more, jogging several hundred yards upstream. "Jack? Jack!" they called as they ran. Mulder moved ahead, his long legs carrying him easily across the scabrous terrain. He jumped over a downed tree and stopped short. "Shit." He looked back at Scully. "What is it, Mulder? Did you find him?" she asked, a little breathless as she slowed to a stop and peered over the fallen log. LaBossiere's bloodied body lay mangled and gaping on the ground. Scully climbed over the log and knelt to examine the body. "Broken nose, jaw, ribs. His abdomen has been pierced just like the other victims. His liver and pancreas have been pulverized," Scully ticked off the damage. Mulder stared at the ropy small intestine strung out several feet from LaBossiere's open torso. He reached down and gripped LaBossiere's shoulder, rolling the corpse on its side to reveal the handcuffs still binding the man's wrists behind his back. "Jesus, Scully. He couldn't even fight back." "Come on, Mulder. Let's go. There's nothing we can do for him." Scully looked up to find Mulder staring intently downstream. "It's Marty," Mulder breathed and set off at a run after the man. Mulder followed Marty into the forest, away from the river. He managed to keep him in sight as they dodged trees and tore through thorny wild blackberry canes. Marty trampled a wide path through a stand of tall cinnamon ferns and, moments later, Mulder closed in after him. He chased Marty up a steep washout created by spring runoff. Marty disappeared over the stony rise and Mulder slowed. He cautiously climbed up and between the rocks, sending a shower of loose gravel rattling down between the tree roots and exposed ledge. Mulder drew his weapon as he neared the top. He held his breath and peered over the ridge. He didn't have time to dodge the solid branch that hit him full in the face, knocking him backward. He scrambled for a handhold, dropping his gun as he grabbed at the rough outcroppings. His weapon clattered to the bottom of the wide washout. Marty loomed over Mulder and brought the tree limb down again. Mulder rolled to the side, his shoulder catching the impact of the blow instead of his skull. He howled in pain. Marty swung once more, his muscular arms wielding the branch like a splitting maul. The wood shattered as it hit the granite outcropping next to Mulder. The violent jolt put Marty off balance; Mulder reached out his good arm and yanked the brawny man down on top of himself. They rolled and slid down the washout, dust billowing and sticking to their sweaty skin. Marty's powerful fingers circled Mulder's neck. He squeezed hard as Mulder fought for air. "Marty?" Mulder managed to gasp. Marty leaned his face close, his eyes burned into the agent and he slowly shook his head. "My name is Georges," he hissed in a heavy French accent. "My soul will be freed only when I have atoned for the death of Bernard LaBossiere. All Vaillancourts...must...die," he grunted and tightened his grip. "I...not...Val...lain...court," Mulder mouthed and reached desperately for the 230 Sig strapped to his ankle. He was losing consciousness. He managed to pull the gun from its holster and raise it to Marty's temple. He fired one shot. Marty's grip around Mulder's neck relaxed and his hands pulled away as the big man fell sideward, blood oozing from the neat hole above his eyebrow. Mulder lay for a moment sucking in air. Each painful breath seared his raw, swollen throat. It took several minutes before he could sit and then stand without reeling dizzily. He picked his way carefully to the bottom of the washout and retrieved his gun. He bent to catch his breath before heading back to the river and Scully. When Mulder had left her to chase after Marty, Scully sat down on the fallen tree above LaBossiere's mutilated corpse to wait for her partner's return. Her eyes remained glued to the path the two men had taken into the forest. Scully flinched when she heard the gunshot. She recognized the sound of Mulder's 230. Her breathing became rapid and shallow as she quickly played out possible scenarios in her mind. she prayed as she left her perch to go find him. She had taken only two steps when she heard it. "Humphf!" sounded behind her. The deep, primal noise chilled her to her bones. She turned slowly. Not twenty feet away stood a massive bull moose, his head lowered, his angry eyes surveying her. He tossed his heavy antlers high into the air; they stretched more than five feet across. He pawed the ground. His enormous humped shoulder towered above her. Her hand shook as she reached behind her back for her gun. As her fingers closed on her empty holster, she remembered she had taken the weapon out and laid it on the ground back at the clearing. She swallowed hard and tried to think of what to do. The nearest tree was thirty or more feet away. She didn't think she could climb it, even if she were lucky enough to reach it before the moose charged. Her eyes widened and her heart hammered in her chest when she realized the beast was thundering toward her. She tried to drop and roll but the animal's wide antlers struck her hard in the chest, tossing her several yards across the open ground and knocking the breath out of her. Her lungs refused to take in air and she nearly panicked as her brain screamed for oxygen. When at last she succeeded to inhale, the moose sounded again. "Humphf!" The muscles of her legs no longer responded when she tried to stand. The moose approached her, sniffing the air. She tried to scramble back as its front legs straddled her. It blew a steamy breath across her face. She raised her gaze to look into its huge, liquid eyes. She could see every individual dark hair that fringed its eyelids. It blinked, momentarily hiding and then revealing its bottomless, black pupils. "Nodah, Nidoupso." it grunted. Scully's mouth dropped open in shock. "What? Who are you?" she managed to whisper. "Madjahando." She shook her head one time and whimpered. She felt an odd pulling, as though she was being tugged inside out. She sensed herself loosening from the physical material of her flesh, separating from her bones. She feared the beast was stripping her soul from her body, sucking her into itself. She shook her head again and drew Mulder's knife from her pocket. Fury exploded in the menacing creature as she plunged the long blade through the animal's eye socket and deep into its brain. It staggered and dropped to its knees, bellowing as it teetered and keeled. "Pujinkskwes." it cried. Blood gushed from its eye onto the ground. The steam that rose from the creature's hot blood coalesced and lifted, giving the impression of dancing figures rising in the cold air. Scully blinked and the wind scattered the image. "Sculleee!" Mulder called in alarm as he emerged from the woods to find her on the ground, a dead moose beside her with the handle of his knife sticking out of its eye. "Scully," he breathed with relief as he dropped to his knees beside her and scooped her into his embrace. She continued to stare past him at the moose until her breathing slowed and she could speak. "I'm all right, Mulder. So are you." -------------------------------------------------------------- Greenville Memorial Hospital Greenville, Maine Two days later Mulder leaned in and lightly kissed Scully's cheek before carefully sitting on the edge of her hospital bed. "The doctor is signing your release papers right now," he told her. "How are you feeling?" "I'm fine, Mulder. I'm looking forward to going home." "We've got an early flight out of Bangor tomorrow morning. I've reserved us rooms at a hotel near the airport for tonight. Are you up to the two-hour drive?" he asked, concerned. She had suffered two fractured ribs and extensive bruising from the blow to her chest and abdomen by the charging moose. He had fared slightly better. His dislocated shoulder was easily popped back into place and he had required several stitches on his brow where Marty had struck him in the face with the tree limb. His neck bore the red imprints of Marty's chokehold. "I brought you the autopsy reports on Jack LaBossiere and Marty," he passed her the files and she eagerly opened them. "You were right, Scully. They both had Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease." She scanned the report. The autopsy had shown the distinctive pattern of waxy deposits known as amyloid plaques in the brains of both men, along with the usual holes that give the brain the appearance of Swiss cheese. LaBossiere's condition had been more advanced, accounting for his more obvious symptoms. "This doesn't explain everything, Mulder," she said. He gave her a confused look. "It doesn't explain the moose fur embedded in the abdominal cavities of several of the victims - all from the same moose, I might add. It doesn't explain the hoofprint-shaped bruise on Rick Stewart's thigh or the moose tracks found at several of the crime scenes. And it doesn't explain what happened to me by the river." Mulder reached for Scully's hand and slowly stroked the backs of her fingers with his thumb as he considered what she said. "Scully, the most plausible theory is that Marty Vallaincourt was the murderer, becoming delusional after contracting Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease. He mistakenly thought he carried the guilt-ridden soul of his ancestor Georges Vallaincourt, a soul who wouldn't leave until he atoned for the death of his friend Bernard LaBossiere by killing the descendants of the Vallaincourt family. Marty told that story so many times, he came to believe it after he developed the illness." "Not all the victims were Vaillancourts." "He was delusional, Scully. Hell, he thought I was a Vaillancourt when he tried to kill me." She took a deep breath. "Mulder, I know what happened to me." "You were attacked by a moose. The warden told us that's not unusual at this time of year. Moose are in rut and can be aggressive." "It was more than that, Mulder. It...spoke to me." "You'd just had the wind knocked out of you, Scully." "Now you're saying I was delusional due to lack of oxygen to the brain?" "Is that so hard to accept?" "It called me 'Pujinkskwes' after I stabbed it in the eye. I looked it up, Mulder. In the traditional Abenaki language, it means 'witch' or 'a female with great medicine, sometimes used for mischief.' How could I hallucinate a word I've never heard before?" -------------------------------------------------------------- Assistant Director Skinner's Office Hoover Building, Washington, DC One week later Mulder and Scully sat in their usual seats in front of AD Skinner's desk. Skinner reread their reports and chewed the inside of his lower lip. "Agents, I'm not sure what to make of these," he squinted up at them. "Sir?" Skinner studied Mulder. "You're saying you think the killer was a man named Marty Vallaincourt who suffered from Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease, contracted by eating contaminated moose meat?" "Yes, sir." "And you," Skinner turned to look at Scully, "think the killer was a moose possessed by the spirit of a man who lived and died more than three hundred years ago?" "Yes, sir," she nodded. "Don't forget the evil force known as 'Madjahando.'" Skinner looked from Scully to Mulder and back again to Scully. "You two haven't mixed up your reports and mistakenly signed the wrong ones by any chance?" "No, sir," the agents shook their heads. Skinner looked baffled. "I would more likely believe the two of you somehow...switched bodies while you were in Maine than I'd believe that Agent Mulder is subscribing to a scientific explanation based on quantifiable evidence while Agent Scully is accepting a paranormal point of view supported by urban mythology. Is that the case, Agents -- have you switched bodies?" Skinner asked seriously. Mulder and Scully turned to hastily look each other up and down from head to toe. "No, sir," they shook their heads. Skinner sighed and picked up his pen. Pausing before adding his signature, he stared again at the reports in front of him. "Uh, Agent Mulder..." "Yes, sir?" Scully replied and Skinner's focus immediately lifted to survey her serious expression. Mulder continued her charade by asking her, "Mulder, I received the latest monograph on recent forms of transmissible spongiform encephalopathy disorders, if you'd like to borrow it this evening..." "That's a tempting offer, Scully," she responded, "but War of the Worlds is playing at the dollar cinema tonight and I was going to invite you to come along. Dutch treat, of course." "I'm not amused, Agents. You are dismissed. Get out of my office," Skinner commanded sternly. As the two agents rose to leave, Mulder told Scully, "That's very generous of you, Mulder, and I thank you, but I planned on washing my hair after reading the monograph." "Oooo. Sculleeee. Need any help rinsing out the conditioner?" she asked and waggled her eyebrows. "OUT!" Skinner bellowed. THE END Feedback is welcome. This is my second attempt at X-File Fan Fiction, so any comments or suggestions, good or bad, will be appreciated. Send your thoughts to: nejake@tds.net. Thanks!