RED HERRING by Stephanie L Lutz KaiSteph@aol.com DISCLAIMERS: The characters and concept of The X-Files are the property of Chris Carter, and TPTB at 1013 and Fox. I’m only borrowing them and promise to return them in just a little while... “Child of Steel” and “Just Don’t Talk About It” are from the “10 Song Demo” CD by Rosanne Cash. SUMMARY: Disturbing evidence distracts Mulder from a case. RATING: PG I guess - not more disturbing than an ep would be, anyway. No MSR, no UST, lotsa Mulder-angst... Praises and virtual sunflower seeds to KaiSteph@aol.com. Flames will be used to roast the seeds.... RED HERRING Sterling Forest, Tuxedo, New York November 21, 1996 If a flying saucer lands in the middle of a forest, does it make a sound? Well, this one didn’t, not as such. It just dropped out of the dusky clouds and hovered there, a huge dull gray disk, then gracefully descended to the ground. What make a sound was the splintering snapping of the tree trunks it crushed as if they were merely blades of grass, out of which darted the elusive deer that Jack Fenley had been stalking the entire afternoon. Perhaps “stalking” was not the right word - Jack certainly would not have put it that way. A self-styled wildlife journalist, he’d been carefully photographing and cataloging the various indigenous plants and animals since early fall, when the Faire had closed down after its seasonal run, and the surrounding forest came back to life, bursting into the full colors of autumn. He considered the deer to be his crowning achievement, and he’d stayed late on this shortening November day, till it was almost too dark to photograph it anyway, but now he didn’t even notice it running away. Jack was huddled behind a tree, staring in terror at the monstrous thing that had just invaded his woods. As his trembling subsided, he remembered the Nikon camera slung around his neck, and his sense of adventure slowly began to return. Deer, nothing - was a prize. He stepped out of his hiding place, and made his way carefully among rocks, piles of soggy leaves and broken branches toward the saucer, which lay still like a landed Frisbee in the middle of nowhere. Camera raised and gripped tightly in his hands, he snapped picture after picture as he walked. “They didn’t believe me about the red fox,” he muttered to himself. “They’re gonna believe this....” FBI Headquarters, Washington, DC November 22, 1996 “Sterling Forest?” Dana Scully repeated, arching an eyebrow at her partner, who was brandishing a newspaper at her while perched on the edge of his desk. “Isn’t that where they hold that Renaissance Festival?” “Guess no one warned the aliens that they’d be an anachronism,” Fox Mulder quipped, his hazel eyes dancing mischievously. Scully rolled her eyes and groaned, then quickly recovered her professionally serious and skeptical expression. She took the paper from Mulder’s hands and stared at the colorful pictures on the front page, while shifting her weight from one foot to the other. A dark gray object surrounded by orange and dark red leaves, and pieces of wood, graced the center of the page. “UFO lands on Fairgrounds” read the block letter headline. “Mulder, this isn’t exactly the New York Times,” she said dryly. “Haven’t you been warned before about trying to assign case numbers to tabloid headlines?” “Yeah, but this is different.” Mulder brushed her objections aside. “This guy’s a serious photojournalist. He’s been cataloging the indigenous wildlife, and yesterday he ran into something that wasn’t exactly indigenous.” “Wasn’t?” Scully placed the paper on the nearest file cabinet and folded her arms. “Does that mean whatever-it-was is no longer there?” “Well, yeah,” Mulder ducked his head. “I just spoke to him on the phone, and he said that when he went back ,early this morning, it was gone. But,” he continued quickly before Scully could speak, “the evidence is still there - the broken trees, the burn marks in a circle... and he said there looked like some kind of fuel residue.” Mulder looked up, eyes bright with his excitement. “Scully this is a terrific opportunity! He’s expecting us this afternoon, he’ll show us the spot. But there’s some stuff we need to look at first.” He thrust a small sheet of paper at her. “I need you to find these files for me. There’s a couple phone calls I’ve got to make...” Scully took the paper from him, rubbing at her temples with the other hand. She could feel the throbbing beginnings of a major ache. “Sure,” she sighed, “fine, whatever.” Scully sneezed loudly as her movements caused a cloud of dust to rise in the main file room, and thought dark thoughts about her partner, and about the administration that didn’t see fit to give them a secretary to handle this sort of thing. She pulled the first file on Mulder’s list, then pushed the drawer shut with a bit more force then necessary. Turning, she stubbed her toe on a drawer that wasn’t quite closed, and let out an oath. This was her day already, and she hadn’t even had her second cup of coffee yet. Then she forgot her foot as she stared at the drawer. A locked drawer, the lock was sprung and the drawer was open. Curiosity got the better of her, and she pulled it open. She lifted out the first file, and with a surreptitious glance at the door, flipped it open and started to read. “Oh, my God,” she said aloud, sitting down heavily on a box of computer paper and not noticing the lid buckling under her. The file contain detailed descriptions of genetic experiments, and she felt slightly nauseous as she read the matter-of-fact chronicle of the results. A name leaped out at her - . Color draining from her face, she followed the entry to its end, with the simple words “subject expired, Feb. 2, 1975”. Standing outside the door to Mulder’s office, Scully took a deep breath, gripping the file tightly in her right hand. Her eyes filled with tears for a split second. She did want to do this. For another minute, she contemplated, turning, replacing the file and locking it up, or better yet, putting it through a shredder and letting Mulder remain in his fantasy world. But the scientist in her would not let her. she thought. And now she was going to give it to him. Feeling as if there was a great weight on her chest, she slowly pushed open the door. “Mulder,” she said softly. He was sitting on his desk, legs swinging slightly, the newspaper back in his hands. He had removed his silk jacket, and it was tossed over the back of the chair. His tie was loosened and his sleeves rolled up. “Scully,” he said cheerfully, looking up at her. “I was wondering how long it would take you to get back from the dungeon.” He jumped off the desk and faced her, his eyes bright with boyish enthusiasm. “Here - you never finished the rest of the article.” He tossed her the paper. She caught it in her left hand, a few of the inside pages falling to the floor, and afforded it one glance. Another set of block letters spelling UFO caught her eye, and she set it carefully down on the table near the door. “Mulder,” she tried again. He was moving around the desk, gathering papers, talking excitedly. “I got us seats on the noon Metroliner - we’ll take the scenic route, eh Scully? It’s a bit late, but I hear the foliage is still gorgeous this time of year. Now, where did I put that-” “MULDER!” Something in Scully snapped. She desperately wanted to shake him. “Listen to me!” Surprised, he stopped, and looked at her, his eyes questioning. “There. Are. No. UFO’s,” she stated slowly, tonelessly, but enunciating each word. “There are no aliens. There never were.” “You’re wrong, Scully,” he began his usual treatise. “You’ve seen-” “Listen!” She interrupted him again, shaking her head. “The government has got it made, hasn’t it.” Bitterness entered her voice now, and anger, both at him and for him. “You give them the perfect cover. Let Spooky run around chasing his aliens, feed him just enough information that he wants to hear to make him think he’s on to something, and then carry on just as they please, right under our noses.” Mulder was still now, just looking at her. He looked faintly hurt, and now she was going to hurt him even more. Tears returning to her eyes, she rushed on, the faster she got it over with the better. “Mulder, your sister was not abducted, the government took her. Her and many others.” Her voice caught, she couldn’t say the rest, what had been done to them. She set the file carefully down on the desk. “She’s dead, Mulder,” she whispered, “and she has been for a very long time.” Mulder’s face was deathly pale. He stared at her for what seemed like forever. The paper in his hands tore, and he glanced down at it for a second as if surprised, then let it drop. He reached for the file with a trembling hand. Wordlessly, he opened it and started to read. Scully closed her eyes, until a strangled cry from Mulder made them snap back open. She hadn’t thought his face could get any whiter. She bit her lip hard, and tasted blood. “Mulder,” she said gently, placing her hand on his arm. He shoved her roughly away. The heel of her pump caught on one of the pieces of newspaper she’d dropped, and she skidded, falling flat on her back. She got her head up in time to see Mulder stumble through the door, the file crumpled in his hands. “Mulder!” She shouted after him. “Mulder, where are you going?” There was no response, but she hadn’t really thought there would be. Eyes blurring with tears, Mulder sped down the highway, barely managing to keep his car in the lane, and oblivious to the horns sounding around him. Inside his head, he kept hearing his sister’s voice. “Fox!” she called, “Help me!” Over and over. She couldn’t be dead, she couldn’t be. He’d never allowed himself to believe that, never allowed himself to grieve. Instead he’d put all his energy into finding her. But now he had what he was looking for, had it in writing. The fate of Samantha. But it wasn’t what he was looking for, not at all. Now he had to believe she was gone, really gone. He’d never find her, never help her like he’d promised he would. The Watergate building and Jefferson Memorial sped by on his right side, then everything went completely blurry. Slamming on the brakes, he skidded the Taurus over onto the shoulder, and shoved it into park. Then he folded his arms over the steering wheel and dropped his head onto them. Mulder’s Apartment, Washington, DC November 22, 1996 Shivering, Scully sat in her car and stared at Mulder’s building. Deciding that she’d let him be alone long enough to be safe, she got out of the car and entered the building. She stepped out of the elevator to find the door to Mulder’s apartment was ajar. She pushed it open cautiously, calling his name. No answer. No lights were on, but the streetlight outside was bright enough that she could see the debris on the floor. It appeared as though everything Mulder owned had been tested for breakablility. She closed the door and picked her way gingerly across the glass-strewn floor to where Mulder lay curled up on the black leather sofa. Switching on the lamp at the end of the sofa, she looked down at him. His hair was rumpled across his forehead, and his face streaked with dried tears. His arms were folded across his chest, holding a small picture frame tightly. Mulder heard Scully’s voice, the click of the door closing, and the soft, crunching footsteps. He opened his eyes and blinked in the light, to see her bending over him, her auburn hair falling forward over her face. Laboriously, he sat up, pulled his legs off the couch to make room for her. “I’m sorry I pushed you, Scully,” he said, trying his best to give her a smile, which came nowhere near reaching his red-rimmed eyes. She sat down next to him. “I’m sorry.... I’m just sorry.” Her blue eyes studied him. He held out the picture to her. She took it, and looked down at the young boy and girl standing together on a beach, the boy with his arm around the girl. “That was taken the summer before....” he said. “At the Vineyard. We spent all our time on the beach. Sam was a good swimmer, better than me.” For some reason it seemed important that Scully understand this. She nodded, acknowledging the seriousness of his comments. Then she set the picture down on the table, facing them, and grasped his hands. Mulder looked at her, his wide eyes pleading. “She’s not coming back,” he whispered, “is she?” Scully swallowed hard. Reaching for him, she slipped her arms around his back. Dropping his head against her shoulder, Mulder closed his eyes again, and let her hold him close. I’d give a lifetime, baby to see you smile If you could give your troubles over for just a little while And look at the truth It’s right here staring at you Oh angels bow when you walk by And the rest of us here have always known why Cause a soul takes it blows And it does not reveal the heart opens slow And it takes time to heal But you can let go It’ll all turn to gold My sweet child of steel Well I watch you walk through fire when clear water runs near Watch your heart break open wide A heart I hold so dear But look at the truth It could burn a hole right through you Oh angels bow and cover their eyes And the rest of us here just break down and cry Cause a soul takes its blows And it does not reveal The heart opens slow And it takes time to heal But you can let go It’ll all turn to gold My sweet child of steel “Child of Steel” - Rosanne Cash Professional Office Building, Georgetown, Maryland November 23, 1996 Dr. Heitz Verber, MD. Regression Hypnosis And Psychotherapy> read the gold lettering on the door. Mulder rubbed his chin, noting absently that he’d neglected to shave this morning. His tie wasn’t straight either, he further noted, but he made no move to remedy that. He hadn’t slept well, despite the pills Scully had smuggled from the FBI dispensary for him. She’d stayed with him on the couch, but he’d let her sleep, staying quiet and holding as still as possible when the nightmares woke him. The nightmares where Samantha called his name, and he did nothing, just lay there as her voice became more and more frantic... Mulder shook himself, and pushed open the door. He let it fall shut behind him, a little harder than necessary. The blonde receptionist looked up, startled. “May I help you?” she asked politely. He ignored her and headed determinedly for the inner door. “Wait sir!” she called after him. “Do you have an appointment? Sir! He’s with a client!” Her voice was no more than an annoying buzz in his ears. The inner door opened and shut, and he could no longer hear it. The inner office was softly lit and colored with quiet pastels. Two small, comfortable looking sofas faced each other across a glass topped coffee table, which held a large box of tissues and an ashtray. Mulder’s clinical eye noticed all this in a distracted glance, and he focused his attention on the man sitting behind the mahogany desk on the other side of the room. Dr. Verber looked up from the notes he was reading, removed a pair of wire-rimmed glasses and smiled. He was a fit looking man in his early forties. Short curly hair was just beginning to go gray at his temples. His sport jacket was casually hung on a wooden coat rack behind the desk, he wore no tie and his shirt was unbuttoned at the top. “Hello, Fox,” he said warmly, standing and offering his hand. “It’s been quite a while. As it happens, my first appointment canceled on me, so what can I do for you?” Mulder ignored the hand, and instead picked up a paperweight, clear glass with dried flowers preserved inside. He studied it intently, pressing his thumb over the smooth, cool surface. “I want answers,” he stated in a flat voice. Verber lowered his hand and nodded. “Well, Fox, I think we learned all that we could in your last session - I doubt putting you under again will bring any more ‘answers’, but,” he indicated the couches, “perhaps you’d like to talk about whatever’s bothering you?” “No, dammit!” Mulder’s head shot up and his eyes flashed. “I want answers! I want to know what you did to me when I was under, I want to know what my memories were, and I want to know who paid you!” He brushed aside the doctor’s protests with a wave of his hand, and gripped the paperweight tightly in his fist. He leaned forward over the desk so that his face was only inches from Verber’s. “I have proof, hard evidence, of what happened to my sister, and,” his voice cracked and he brought it sharply under control, “it’s not what I remember, not according to those tapes. So, now I want the truth.” Verber spread his hands helplessly. “They didn’t pay me, not as such,” he said softly. He held up his hands as Mulder started to interrupt. “I don’t know who they were, they never gave me names. I’d gotten into a spot of trouble with the FDA, and they said they’d take care of it if I did as they asked. I planted the information they gave me into your mind using hypnotic suggestion, then recorded you repeating it back to me. I never heard from them again.” Mulder squeezed his eyes shut. In his head he heard the voice, Samantha’s voice he shouted back at it. He dragged his eyes back open and stared at the doctor, who was watching him silently, offering no apologies or further explanations. “What were my real memories?” Mulder asked in a calm, dead voice. “You remembered nothing,” Verber replied, just as calmly. “As far as I could determine, you were unconscious during the whole experience.” Mulder stood frozen, gripping the paperweight. Analytically, he calculated how many pieces the glass table would shatter into if he threw the weight just right, and how far the ashes in the ash tray would scatter into the thick pile carpet. he thought sharply, Ironic, that. Very carefully, he placed the paperweight on the desk, turned on his heel and left the office without a backward glance. As the door slammed shut behind Mulder’s stiff back, Verber heaved a huge sigh of relief, and with a tissue held in trembling hands, mopped at the perspiration running down the back of his neck as he willed his heart to slow. For a few moments there he’d thought Mulder was going to blow. As a psychiatrist, he knew the man was a timebomb, just barely managing to keep himself on the edge of perfect control. As a man, he knew he didn’t want to be anywhere nearby him if and when he finally did lose that control. Hell, he didn’t want to be in the same . The door to the file room opened, releasing a small cloud of smoke. A man in a dark suit stepped out, taking a long pull on the glowing cigarette he held between his thumb and forefinger. Crossing the room, he stubbed out the butt in the ashtray on the table, lit another, and returned to stand in front of the desk, in the same spot Mulder had stood just seconds before. “Excellent,” he said, blowing a puff of smoke in the face of the nervous doctor. “My colleagues will be most pleased.” Scully’s Apartment, Washington, DC November 23, 1996 “I’m coming!” Scully called, irritated by the persistent banging at her front door. Toweling her just-washed hair, she padded across the floor in her terry robe and slippers, unlocked the door and jerked it open to find Mulder standing there. she thought crossly, then she caught a good look at his face. “Hi Scully,” he said distractedly, running his fingers through his hair only to succeed in making it stand up in more directions. “I ran out of things to break at my place, so I thought I’d come try yours.” he gave her a half smile that somehow seemed to match the wild look in his eyes, which were also suspiciously bright, and still as red and puffy as they’d been the day before. His face was pale with dark stubble shadowing the lower half. He looked like hell. Scully took his arm and tugged him inside, pushing the door closed behind him. Despite his smile, or perhaps because of it, she cast a quick nervous glance at the various nick-nacks she had on display, and decided she was glad he hadn’t used his key after all. Mulder sat on the edge of the couch for a moment, head in his hands, then jumped up again. “It was all a lie, Scully,” he muttered, “all of it!” “Can you be more specific,” she asked, tossing the towel onto a chair, and combing through her wet hair with her fingers. He sat down again, and she sat next to him, putting a restraining hand on his arm, as he looked ready to spring up again. “What happened, Mulder?” “I went to see Dr. Verber today,” he told her. “The psychiatrist who did regression hypnotherapy on me. He confessed. Those memories I have, the ones I can’t access, except in my nightmares, they’re fake, Scully. He planted them and taped me parroting them back.” Scully frowned. “Are you sure, Mulder? Those tape sounded very convincing, and you responded appropriately to the questions.” “So, he did a good job....” Mulder’s voice trailed off as he stared at her questioningly, his train of thought interrupted, and she flushed. “I listened to them,” she admitted. “A long time ago. You put them on file, Mulder,” she added in her defense. He acknowledged that with a distracted nod and went back to her previous remark. “They’d have to be convincing, wouldn’t they - to fool me and make me play their little games.” He was up again, moving about the room with his hand rubbing his forehead. “And I played, Scully, I played right into their hands. I jumped when they wanted me to, just like a perfect puppet on a string. You were right, Scully - you’ve been right all along.” He sank back down on the couch, and dropped his face into his hands, shoulders slumping. “Mulder, I’m not so sure of that,” Scully said slowly, carefully. He didn’t respond. “Mulder?” She reached over and put her hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. He lifted his head and looked at her dully. “I mean - I’ve been thinking. It all seems so... . That drawer just happens to be open, that file there - right where I’d be sure to find it, and something I accept immediately because it’s a rational, scientific explanation. Maybe - maybe it’s the other way around this time.” Now it was her turn to stand and pace, yanking hard on the tie to her robe. “Maybe this time the one on the string.” She sighed. “And now your therapist, part of the conspiracy. They you’re looking for a conspiracy Mulder, but I’m not sure we’re looking for the one...” Mulder stood more slowly this time, and faced her. “Get dressed, Scully,” he said. “Where are we going?” “The office.” A little bit of light had started to return to his eyes. “I want to see where you found that file - and what else is there.” 46th Street, New York City. The room was dark, dim and smoky. Tall windows that had been cracked open let in a breath of fresh air now and again. Dust particles danced in the stripes of light that peaked in through the wide venetian blinds, only to be absorbed by the dark green wallpaper. The furnishing were just as dark and stuffy as the atmosphere - hard leather wing chairs, mahogany tables, and brass lamps with thick shades. Four men were in the room, two sitting and two standing. One stood by the window, holding a cigarette to his lips. A heavy-set Italian looking man in a double-breasted suit turned in his chair to face the younger man standing by the largest table, a black telephone in his hand. “What is the status of the operation?” he asked, as the other put down the phone. “Right on schedule,” was the reply. The other seated man, elderly, with neatly manicured fingernails, uncrossed his legs and leaned forward slightly in his chair. “What about our friend, Mr. Mulder? My associates in Washington tell me that he is preparing to investigate.” All eyes turned to the smoking man. A breath in, a breath out. Tendrils of curling smoke reaching for the ceiling. “He is - otherwise occupied.” He took another puff. The well-manicured man smiled in satisfaction, and leaned back in his chair once more. “Excellent,” said the Italian man, with a nod. FBI Headquarters, Washington DC Scully’s nose began itching in anticipation as she pushed open the door to the file room. The dust didn’t seem to bother Mulder though, as he shoved past her. For a moment she envied his ability to so completely and totally focus his mind, just until she remembered what it was his mind was focused - evidence that his sister had been the subject of genetic experiments that had led to her death. “Where is it, Scully?” Mulder asked impatiently, his voice taking on that edge of frantic helplessness that showed how close he was to this. He ran his hand through his hair. “It’s over -” Scully stopped, eyes widening as she located the file drawer, lying on its side open and empty. “Here,” she finished lamely. “Dammit!” Mulder kicked the drawer with a vengeance. The dull metallic ring made Scully wince for his foot. He shoved the now dented drawer out of the way, and looked at her, the wildness back in his eyes and his chest heaving as his breath came in short gasps. “Mulder,” she began. “Stay here.” He interrupted, turning for the door. “Where are you going?” Scully put her hands on her hips in exasperation. “My apartment,” he called over his shoulder. “I have a bad feeling!” Mulder’s apartment was just as he had left it. Almost. A few slivers of glass on the floor, left behind after Scully’s hasty attempt at a clean-up. The usual clutter of papers, books, a few articles of clothing strewn here and there. Sam’s picture on the coffee table. But next to it, where he’d left the file, was nothing. Just empty table-top, that for some reason he noticed needed dusting. Mulder sank down in his chair, the anger was gone and the despair that had been welling inside him all day overflowed. Distractedly, he recalled that he’d always known had access to this apartment, this wasn’t the first time there had been a break in, not the first time he’d lost evidence. But this time they’d it to him, if Scully was right and the file had been planted - why take it away again? Why destroy his world, then remove the evidence of that destruction while he was still trying to pick up the pieces? Were they just trying to mess with his head? If so, they were doing quite a good job - not that it hadn’t been messed up to begin with. He felt sick to his stomach, and cold - so cold that he was shivering suddenly. He should have hidden the file. Should have, like he should have watched Samantha, and should have - hell, his whole life was one big should have. Swallowing hard to keep the bile out of his throat, he reached for a flannel shirt that lay in one of the piles and wrapped it around his shoulders. Then he reached for the phone. Scully was staring intently at the computer screen when her cel phone rang. She pulled it out and switched it on, removing her glasses as she held the phone to her ear. “Scully.” “It’s gone, Scully.” Mulder’s voice sounded very far away. “The file.” It was a statement, not a question. “Why, Scully?” His voice was a whisper now. “Mulder,” she said slowly, squinting at the computer. “I’ve been doing some checking on your Dr. Verber. It seems the FDA brought him up on charges for some suspicious prescriptions, and he was cleared when the evidence suddenly disappeared.” “Yes, he told me about that - that’s how they got to him Scully. That’s how they made him fix those tapes. The evidence - that’s their standard MO.” “Mulder, wait,” Scully frowned, and tucked a few strand of red hair behind her ear. “That’s not possible. The incident in question only happened a year ago. Your sessions occurred long before that.” “But that means,” Mulder’s voice started to come back to life. “He’s lying . He’s lying about lying. Scully-” he trailed off. “Mulder, what is it?” Mulder stared at the table, remembering another table he’d seen this morning. Something that had stuck in his mind, but he hadn’t made the connection. Ashes in the ashtray. the receptionist had said. ashes. “Scully,” he gasped. “He was there!” “ was , Mulder?” Scully’s voice was calm and patient. “Cancerman! In the Doctor’s office! There were ashes in the tray, Scully! He was there, and he me to think my memories aren’t real. He knew how I’d react!” Silence on the other end. He grabbed his car keys and pulled the door shut behind him, heading for the stairwell. No time to wait for the elevator. “Scully, I’m coming. Wait for me out front.” “Out front?” “We’ve got to get to New York. ” He was out of the front door and sprinting to his car, his voice reaching fever pitch. “The file, the tapes, they’re a red herring, Scully! They’re trying to distract me, to distract . To keep us away from that UFO. It’s got to be something important, Scully, for them to go to so much trouble.” To cause him so much pain, he thought bitterly, turning the key in the Taurus’ ignition with a little more force than necessary. The anger was back. “Five minutes, Scully. I’ll be there.” Tuxedo, New York Scully climbed carefully out of the car, and suppressed the urge to kiss the ground. To say Mulder had driven fast would have been an understatement. He’d said hardly a word during the drive, just held the wheel in a death grip, and pressed his foot to the floor. Smoothing her hair, she wondered where all the infamous New York state troopers had been hiding. She pulled her wool overcoat closely about her, shivering in the country air. Mulder was already walking across the small yard to the log cabin style house they’d parked in front of. Light streamed from the window, and she could smell the wood smoke drifting from the small chimney on the roof. She hurried after Mulder, piles of dried unraked leaves crunching under her feet. The cabin door opened immediately at Mulder’s sharp knock. “Jack Fenley?” Mulder inquired brusquely, showing his badge to the man framed in the light from the room inside. “Agents Mulder and Scully, FBI.” “Oh, yes,” the man blinked. “I’ve been expecting you for quite a while.” The was a slight accusatory tone to his voice. “Please, come in.” Scully pushed past Mulder, and went straight for the fireplace, rubbing her thinly gloved hands, and wriggling her feet, which were clad in only stockings and pumps. At least she was wearing pants. One of these days, she reflected, she’d learn to dress for the unexpected. Mulder didn’t seem to be bothered by the cold. He was facing Fenley, a short but trim man dressed in a bright red flannel shirt, jeans, and scuffed hiking boots. “We’d like to see your photographs,” Mulder said, without preamble. Fenley shook his head, and scratched at his light colored beard. “My house was broken into last night,” he said, shoulders slumping. “My photos are gone - all of them, Mr. Mulder. The negatives too. I called the police right away, so I thought you knew.” Mulder’s face looked like thunder. Scully prayed that he would remember this wasn’t his house, and not try to break anything. “You can take us to the site, though?” he pressed. Fenley brightened. “Yeah, sure.” He glanced doubtfully at Scully. “But it’s getting kind of dark.” “That’s OK,” Mulder said, already out the door. “We have flashlights. Big flashlights.” Route 17A Scully had a sinking feeling that they were getting close when she heard the sirens. Red, white and blue flashing lights filled the sky ahead. Mulder squealed the car to a stop between two firetrucks, and leaped out. Scully followed, her nose filling with the acrid smell of smoke. Gasoline, she guessed, mixed with wood. Mulder flashed his ID at the approaching fireman, and ran ahead into the woods, ignoring the man’s protests. Scully ran after him, swearing lightly under her breath as her heel caught in a tree root. She yanked it out, and felt the heel snap off. she muttered, “I’m wearing Reeboks to work.> “Mulder!” she shouted as he disappeared from view. She pushed through the next line of trees. Mulder was standing at the edge of the clearing, staring at the ring of fire in front of him. The old fear started to rise inside him, tightening his chest as the flames leapt and danced, showering sparks that jumped to the next pile of sticks and dried leaves, burning across the forest with lightening speed. He felt Scully’s hand on his arm, and shook himself as a drops of water from a nearby fireman’s hose brushed his face. He pulled his arm gently from Scully’s grasp, and moved over to the area that had already been extinguished. Scorched earth, and charred ashes were all that remained, the ground black and smooth in the flickering light of the flames. “Oh man,” moaned a voice beside him. He turned to see Jack Fenley standing there, arms hanging limply at his sides, staring at the flames in dismay. “This is right where it was, too! It’s all gone, now, even the traces!” Mulder had guessed that much. He walked forward, dragging his feet through the still hot ashes, to the closest point he get to the fire. He squatted down and rested his elbows on his knees. Heat assailed his face, making his eyes water, and more drops of hose water struck the back of his head. He watched the flames dance across the hardened floor of the forest, laughing mockingly at him. the seemed to say. “Mulder?” Scully’s voice, behind him. “Are you OK?” “I’m fine, Scully.” The lie came automatically after all this time. He stayed there for a moment more, gazing at the fire, then rose, turned and walked away. 46th Street, New York City The blinds and windows were closed tightly now, but only enough to muffle the blaring horns of late rush hour traffic on the street below. People hurrying to get out of the city, home, anywhere. The leather and wood shone in the muted light of the various lamps about the room, and the smell of cigarette smoke was stronger. The well-manicured man rose from his chair and smoothed down the front of his suit jacket. “Our objective,” he eyed the others. “Is it accomplished?” The man in the corner drew deeply on his cigarette, and remained silent, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. The well-manicured man ignored him, and looked at the young man, who nodded. “The evidence has been destroyed?” Another nod. “Excellent.” This was from the Italian man, who had also risen. It was the well-manicured man’s turn to nod. “I think, gentlemen,” he said. “it is time to go home.” Mulder’s Apartment, Washington, DC The phone rang once, twice. Mulder reached out carefully, deliberately, and pulled the cord from the wall, silencing it in mid “brrring”. Then he just as carefully opened his briefcase, pulled out the cel phone, and turned it off. He didn’t want to talk to anyone tonight, not even Scully. And he knew that it had been her - no one else would call him after midnight. No one usually called him, period, unless they were on a case. Which they weren’t - never had been really, this time. He carried a beer to the living room, and set the open bottle ceremonially down on the table, next to the picture of him and Samantha, still sitting on display in the same spot Scully had placed it. He sat cross-legged on the couch, leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and rested his chin on his hands. Stared at the picture. She wasn’t dead - not conclusively. That had been a lie. She was still out there - somewhere. With tears filling his eyes, he dared himself to hope. I don’t know why you left me This is all I know My heart is torn from my body My body from my soul Tears will run like water Milk and blood will flow Into silence like a dream Secret and slow Is there a god who looks out for me? Who sees my life on the tracks Whistle in the distance My dreams fading to black Where is the church of my magic? My neatly ordered plans What is the song I was singing? Before this began The world should stop and bow it’s head The wind should cry and moan The stars should disconnect and fade But don’t say a word about it just don’t talk about it.... Just don’t talk about what you don’t understand. “Just don’t talk about it” - Rosanne Cash The End