From: Dryad Date: Wed, 8 Aug 2001 15:10:17 -0400 Subject: Manitou by Dryad Source: direct Disclaimer: Alas, alack, they are not mine. Yadda, yadda, yadda. Title: Manitou Author: Dryad Rating: X, R/NC17, MSR, mild UST, Angst-O-Rama Spoilers: itsy witsy bitsy ones for 'Arcadia', 'Redux II' Season: FTF to 'Je Souhaite' Length: Novella Archive: Gossamer - no, all others - yes. A note where would be nice. Summary: Mulder and Scully frolic with a serial murderer Note: Violence graphically depicted. NoRoMo's read 1-10(R). Shippers and Smutsters read all or just 11+(R/NC17). References and further commentary are at the end of part 13. Reading the other stories in this series is recommended, although not necessary. Feedback: Be brutal. You know you want to. The Song Cycle: The Gift - available now Halcyon Dreaming - available now The Fight - available now One Ordinary Day - available now Manitou - available now "For the children who will lead the future, this is a prayer: stop, stop making the murder of soul (soul) DJ Krush/Murder of Soul/Krush December Lincoln, Vermont early afternoon Mulder crouched next to the body, wondered if Jennifer Dubois had been capable of understanding what was happening to her when her face and scalp had been flayed off. Her eyes were blue or hazel, maybe gray. It was hard to tell with the white film covering them. The cavity which had once housed her intestines and internal organs was shockingly bright, redder than red, redder than cranberry and carmine and scarlet, all words too poor to describe the color corroding the snow around and beneath her. Waxy pearls of yellow fat were visible along the cut flaps of skin. The salmon pink stain in the snow was beautiful in its own strange way, like Copper Canyon at sunset. What made it even more disturbing was the fact that he found beauty in it at all. Finding beauty in death of this nature...sometimes he thought he was sicker than those who committed these crimes. Yet he reminded himself that the best way of finding a killer was to become one in all but deed. Nonetheless, danger lay there as well, his own demons clamoring to be set free inside his skull. "Pardon me, are you Agent Mulder?" He frowned and stood, still looking at the body. Although the crime scene photographer had already taken pictures from every conceivable angle, it was always possible that they'd missed something important. After all, northern Vermont was part of the boonies. Northern Vermont was also damn cold, the dead leaves on the beeches rattling like fingerbones in the frequent gusts of wind. He was grateful that the only things he could smell were pine and the oncoming storm. "Agent Mulder?" He turned, stepped over a line of day-glo orange evidence markers, luminous in the wan light, painfully brilliant against the trampled snow. They were the wrong tone, not harmonizing with the salmon pink. The man speaking was well bundled up in a black State Police jacket, tan trousers, gloves, Sorels, and the ubiquitous flat brimmed hat. The man held out one hand. "Sheriff Whitlow. I'm glad you're here. I would've met you at the office, but my son's just gone into surgery." "Nothing serious, I hope," Mulder said, shaking the other man's hand. God, he hated the banalities, especially when there were more important things to consider. "Appendectomy," Whitlow nodded once and flipped a hand towards the body. "Have any ideas?" Mulder glanced back, shrugged. "It wasn't quick. She was alive throughout most of it," Had her vocal cords broken under the strain of her screaming? Had she felt the cold, or had she been too terrified to notice? Had she prayed to God to save her? Had she asked for her mother? Had she been able to focus on anything else save her impending death? Had her killer warmed his hands over her entrails during the long black night? Had he been splashed when her bowels voided? Whitlow swallowed hard. "D'you think the cold helped any?" "I don't know. It's certainly possible." "Actually, it's quite doubtful," Scully said, approaching Mulder, breath steaming in the air. "The cold, combined with blood loss would have numbed her considerably. But the initial adrenaline rush and shivering would have made the pain much, much worse. Hopefully she bled quickly enough to lose consciousness." "Christ," Whitlow shook his head in disbelief. "Whoever's doing this has got to be insane." Mulder shared a look with Scully. It was the same in every small town in every rural state. He had to admit to himself that despite all he'd seen, occasionally he was of the same opinion - it just didn't seem real, that people could this to one another, not outside of a war. Whitlow must have been thinking the same thing, for he said, "I got drafted the day I turned eighteen. Did my tour in Viet-nam, saw things," he trailed off, came back to the moment with haunted blue eyes. "Saw things. Never thought I'd see the like in my home town." "The trick is lock it up in some small corner of your mind," Mulder said gently. Scully's bright gaze swept his face, but he kept his attention focused on the sheriff. "Throw away the key." "Is that what you do?" Whitlow countered. Smart man. Mulder didn't answer. "What do you know about Dubois?" Scully asked, writing in her field notebook. "Well," Whitlow motioned them back to let the troopers wrap Dubois in plastic. "She was twenty-nine, shared a house with Elaine Weschler and April Mahoney. Moved here after dropping out of Hampshire College when she was twenty-three. Made a living making and selling 'authentic' Indian art at various fairs both in and out of state. She's also got a stall down in Roanoke's, in the Baker Building. Mother deceased, father unknown, no siblings." "We'll want to talk to Weschler and Mahoney as soon as possible," Scully said. Mulder watched the troopers struggle with the frozen body, let Scully do all the talking. There was no elegance in death. Dubois had been brought into the woods, tortured, killed, sprawled over a log face up, limbs akimbo, both sets of intestines spread like butterfly wings on either side of her. Spleen, lungs, kidneys and liver missing. No attempt made to conceal her. Birds and small animals had nibbled on her exposed skin. The troopers had to break off the intestines to fit her in the bag. And yet, for all that, the killer had taken his time, drawing the maximum amount of terror out of her. Scully's shocked tone broke into his thoughts. "When was Mahoney killed?" She asked. Whitlow was glancing back and forth between the two of them in wary surprise. "Couple of weeks ago. I thought that's what you two were coming up here for when we got word of Dubois." "How was Mahoney killed?" Mulder interjected, feeling that odd excitement in his backbrain. He ignored it, experience having taught him it was already working overtime. They were connected - he didn't know how, or why, but they were connected. They had to be. Vermont didn't see a hell of a lot of murders. "Drowned," Whitlow said, following the other men back to the snowmobiles, snow softly crunching beneath his boots. "Fell through the ice in the Pond River shallows, apparently." Mulder cast a quick look Scully's way - she'd caught it as well, although her face gave nothing away to those who didn't know her. "In December?" Having reached the trail, Whitlow busied himself by climbing onto his snowmobile, turning over the motor while the body was loaded onto the sled of the snowmobile behind. "I'll let our coroner know where to find you as soon as she gets back in town." "Sheriff Whitlow - " "Agent Scully, I've got to get back to my boy. He wanted me to be there when he woke up. Now, if you'll excuse me - " Whitlow gunned the engine and took off, guided his Yamaha through the trees in a circle, around the sled and back onto the trail. "What was that all about?" Scully asked, rubbing her gloved hands together. Mulder sniffed, the mucus membranes in his nose drying instantly in the frigid air. "Got me. But whatever it is, something is definitely rotten in the state of Denmark." "Agents?" one of the men called. "We're all ready to take you back now." Manitou, by Dryad 2/13, disclaimer in part one (R) "It's just another day - There's murder in the air It drags me when I walk - I smell it everywhere It's just another day - Where people cling to light To drive away the fear - That comes with every night" Oingo Boingo/Just Another Day/Dead Man's Party Although it was only three forty-five in the afternoon by Mulder's watch, dusk had already fallen and was rapidly approaching full night. Darkness combined with the pines shadowing the trail forced the snowmobile's headlights on. The forest was peaceful and very quiet beyond the headlights and the noise of the engines, mute witness to the horror of Jennifer Dubois' death. Funny, how the woods still had the power to make the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He felt like the trees were watching, holding back judgement to see if justice would be done. Old trees. Old spirits. Doing his best to huddle behind the driver, the wind bringing tears to his eyes, he made a silent vow to do his best. When they arrived back at the clearing by the side of the road, Sheriff Whitlow's truck was long gone. Mulder got off the Ski-Doo, cold and stiff, knee joints aching. He stomped blood back into his feet as he made his way to his rental car. God only knew how long it would take for the heater to get going, he just hoped it was sooner rather than later. Scully slid into the passenger seat after spending a few minutes with the troopers. Mulder shifted into first and rolled onto the road. "How was your flight?" "Rocky. I don't even want to tell you how hairy landing at Burlington Airport was," she shuddered delicately. "Wish I'd been able to come up with you." "Me too," Mulder answered, glancing at the dash to see if the heater really was going at full blast, or if it was merely some kind of Yankee joke played on flatlanders. "Where's your bag?" "The deputy I got a ride in with said he'd drop it off at our hotel." "Bed and breakfast if you please, Scully." "Are you serious? Could there actually be some perks in this godforsaken state?" Mulder half-smiled. "Come on, Vermont's not that bad." "Mulder," Scully stared at him indignantly. "The last time we were here you got radiation poisoning." "Could've been worse. No, seriously," he said at her astonished bark of laughter. "Vermont isn't exactly high on the violent crime list. Some years they don't have any murders at all." "That means nothing." "It does when there are two murders only a few weeks apart in the same small town. Not including Ted Bundy, Vermont's only had one known serial killer, Gary Schaefer, in the early 80's. And Audrey Hilley worked in Brattleboro for a few months after poisoning various members of her family in Texas. Be glad we're not in Maine." "Good point. Never go to the state where Stephen King lives," Scully said, lost in thought. "What are we doing here, anyway? This case isn't exactly an X-File." "It's busy work," Mulder said. He released a deep breath. "To be honest, Scully, I'm happy enough to have your plain, ordinary, garden variety murderer for a change." She looked at him, said, "Because of Iris Johanssen?" He shrugged. "The woman was a liar and a cheat, Mulder, a fraud. God only knows how she found out about your sister. She traded on your hope and gave you nothing by pain and disappointment in return." He smiled bitterly, opened his mouth to speak. "No, Mulder," She held up one hand. "She's not worth thinking about any longer." "But," his smile faded. "what if - ?" "No, no 'but's and no 'what if's. She lied." Scully was, of course, right. It didn't make him feel any better. Houses began appearing by the road twenty miles from where the body had been found, warm light spilling out of uncurtained windows, glimpses of families within, barns looming in the background. Lincoln itself was a blink-and-you-miss-it kind of town, the road turning into Main Street as it passed between the houses and shops on either side, then back into a rural highway past the grade school. The usual accoutrements were there, though - a small laundromat, a café, bookstore, bank, general store, combo gas station, garage and volunteer firehouse. The post office, historical society, and state police offices were housed in the same brick building, an old church. "Here we are," Mulder parked in the Lincoln Inn's wide driveway, set the parking brake on the gentle incline - just in case. "I took the liberty of picking your room for you." Scully gave him a Look before getting out of the car and pounding up the wooden steps of the wraparound porch. Mulder quickly followed, opened the front door and guided her into the foyer with a touch on the small of her back. Neither of them hung their coats up. The inside of the house was typically New England, complete with white walls and the slightest draft coming in through the windowsills. Plain yet homey. Oriental carpets that looked like the real thing were on the floor, Turkish or maybe Egyptian, threadbare where people walked most frequently. Simple watercolors and charcoal sketches adorned the walls, and overloaded bookcases littered the public rooms. The furniture was well-used and unfussy. Chintz had been banished. The scent of woodsmoke and pine and cooked onions permeated the air. "Scully, I hate to break it to you, but I took the room with the private tv." "Mulder, you know I could care less." He'd chosen the room facing the street for himself, giving Scully the corner room at the back of the house, which overlooked fields and distant mountains. The room suited her, the poster bed with its quiet floral bedspread, dark, heavy dresser and matching vanity. Reserved. Feminine without being pushy. Neat and clean. Oh, and the mattress was feather soft. Scully sat on the bed and bounced, then headed for one of the windows. After a quick peek out, she turned to him, eyes bright, a little moue of pleasure on her lips. "This is almost worth forgiving years of fleabag motels." "We aim to please, and just wait to you see the bathroom," he said. He led her back down the hallway, stepped aside. It was, he didn't doubt, her dream bathroom. An extra-long, white enameled, clawfoot tub lay along the wall, a handheld chrome shower unit hooked over one end. It looked big enough to accompany him. A multiplicity of soaps were in baskets around the room, and dried bunches of sweet-smelling eucalyptus hung on the walls. A floor to ceiling cubby was stuffed with fluffy violet towels. The toilet and sink were plain white porcelain, nothing fancy. In a major departure from the rest of the house, the room had been painted brick red, which rather than having the effect of heaviness, made it cozy, the kind of place that begged one to have a long soak at least once a week. "Mulder, we're never leaving." "I'm certainly glad to hear you like it. You must be Agent Scully," the owner of the voice leaned into the room. "Scully, this is Mae Lincoln. She owns the Inn." Lincoln was a petite black woman in her 50's, slender in faded jeans and wool sweater with navy Scandinavian designs, silver feather earrings dangling from her lobes, tight salt and pepper curls barely skimming her scalp. She wore red slipper socks on her feet. "As I was telling Agent Mulder earlier, you two are my only guests at the moment, so you've got the run of the place. Feel free to get anything from the kitchen that you want, I'm sure your hours are going to be very erratic. My room's the last on the left if you need anything." "Thank you," Scully said. "Mrs. Lincoln also runs the historical society," Mulder added. "Mae, please," She said, nodding. "I'm the person to ask if you want the in-depth story of Lincoln. It's far more interesting than you think." "Do you have any thoughts about the murders?" asked Scully. "A few. Would you like some tea or coffee? I've got water on the boil as we speak," Mae said, heading downstairs. "Tea would be lovely," said Scully. "They've come as a great shock. Things like that just don't happen here. Oh, of course we get hunting accidents and cars sliding on ice, and last year Jason Lancaster got run over by his own snowmobile," Mae shook her head. "Both April and Jen were liked, April in particular. Hometown girl, y'know. Terrible what happened to her family." Mulder brought up the rear. He and Scully had developed a wonderful rhythm in the first few months of their partnership, one that had carried on over the years. They'd scope the crime scene, Mulder seeing what he could see while Scully quizzed the officer in charge about the crime itself and the players involved, if known. He'd have a think, then they'd switch, and she'd investigate the scene and the body if it remained in place, while he picked the officer's brain. It worked to their advantage more often than not. He hadn't ever worked with anyone else so well, regardless of gender. They reversed the process during formal interviews. Mae led them into the kitchen, which was lined with battered industrial sized stainless steel stove, refrigerator and freezer. It was a cold room made warmer with the judicious use of color, apricot walls and cinnamon trim. A scarred wooden table big enough to seat ten people was in the middle of the room, and there was a cushioned seat beneath the bay window. "Take a seat," Mae said, pulling three mugs from one of the azure cupboards. Scully pulled one end of the bench out from the table and sat down. "You mentioned something about her family?" Mulder wandered over to the window. It hadn't started snowing yet, but the whistle of the wind was clearly audible through the panes. As was the breeze coming from the sill. He moved and sat next to Scully. "Oh yeah, happened ten years ago. If April hadn't been staying over at Nicole Dulac's she'd've died with her parents and little brother," The kettle shrilled and she moved it to another burner, turned off the stove. "I've got herbal, black tea, and instant decaf. I would've made a fresh pot, but I figured you'd be tired and want your sleep later on." "Coffee for me, please," Mulder said. Scully seemed none too pleased, but she'd get over it. She always did. "Agent Scully?" "Herbal." Mae filled a cobalt blue porcelain teapot with leaves from a jar, then spooned two heaps of instant coffee into one of the mugs. She topped both teapot and mug with water, stirred, brought them to the table. "It was Christmastime, to make things even worse. They ultimately decided that it was an electrical fault from one of the candles in the window. They found John in the hallway with Joe, he must have been carrying the boy when he was overcome by the smoke. Poor Faith never even made it out of bed." "Are there any other family members living in the area?" Mulder asked. He took a sip of coffee - it was instant all right. "No," Mae stirred the pot again, fragrant mint-scented steam rising from the spout. She placed a bamboo strainer over a mug, poured one for Scully, then herself. "They were the last. It's a pity." Scully added a spoonful of dark honey to her mug. "What about yourself, have you lived here long?" "Oh, I grew up in Lincoln. When I was little I thought the town was named after me, much to the delight of my classmates. My teacher, Mrs. Kaspar, told me the town originally had an indian name, but upon his death was renamed after President Lincoln. We were a stop on the Underground Railroad, y'know." "Of course," Mulder said. "You're only a few miles from the border." Mae nodded. "Which also explains the prevalence of French names." Scully took over. "Does Lincoln get a lot of crime?" "Not really. I mean, there's the occasional burglary, but that's almost always restricted to the summer homes and ski lodges. Sometimes campers unintentionally set forest fires, but the volunteers get those under control pretty quickly. A few years ago there was a spate of underwear being stolen off of laundry lines and from Sud's and Bud's, that's the bar-laundromat downtown. Actually, apart from the Mahoney's, we haven't had a serious incident in years." "What about strangers?" Mae squinched her face in thought. "Depends on the season. We get history buffs following the Railroad into Canada, tourists taking the indirect route from Quebec City and Montreal to Boston and New York, or vice versa. Skiers, hikers, cyclists. The usual assortment. It's enough to keep me in business, but not what I'd call tremendous. Two b and b's would be one too many." Mulder took another sip of the awful coffee while Mae and Scully chatted. Two murders in a town where not much happened. A woman drowns in the frozen shallows of a river in the middle of December. Another woman scalped, skinned alive, and disemboweled in the middle of the woods, far enough away from town so that no one hears her screams, yet close enough to a trail to be found by a couple of snowmobilers. He asked, "Was April the type of person to commit suicide?" "I wouldn't have thought so, but you never can tell with that sort of thing. She always struck me as the type of person who planned on going far in life," Mae inspected her tea, picked out a long leaf and rolled it between her fingers. "Jenny I didn't care for. Her or that Elaine. I'm sure she was a perfectly nice girl, but there was something about her that didn't sit right with me," Mae rose to answer the phone as it rang in the hallway. "Our very own font of information. Must be our lucky day," Scully murmured. "Got that right, Scully." Mae returned a moment later. "That was the Sheriff. He'd like the two of you to go to the office. He sounded like he was in a hurry." Fortune bless, now he wouldn't have to finish that terrible coffee. Manitou, by Dryad 3/13 disclaimer in part one (R) "Down in the park where the chant is 'Death, death, death' Until the sun cries morning Down in the park with friends of mine" Gary Numan/Down in the Park/Replicas The walk to the Lincoln State Police office was quick. Main Street was eerily deserted, considering it had only just gone five. The lights were on, but was anybody home? The front section of the church had been reserved for the post office and historical society, occupying either side of the huge foyer, while the State Police had the remainder in the back. Even so, it wasn't big. Consisting of one room, the office looked like every other federal office Mulder had ever been in, except it didn't have a rat's maze of movable cubicles. WANTED and MISSING posters were tacked on the walls, along with a host of federal regulations and worker's comp fact sheets, plus way too many McGruff the Crime Dog posters. Take a Bite Out of Crime. Apart from the white walls, the room was all brown. Carpet, metal desks, telephones, in baskets. Mulder felt like he was on the inside of a baked bean. One of the deputies, the ignominiously named Burt Lancaster, a short balding man with horn-rimmed glasses, led them to the back of the office. Mulder would not have believed anyone who told him about Whitlow's personal office. It had been constructed out of filing cabinets. Three walls of filing cabinets, the building forming the fourth wall. Whitlow didn't look up from the file he was reading as they were led in. "Take a seat." Mulder assumed a sloppier pose than usual, knees wide apart, slouched down in the chair. Whitlow's eyes flickered ever so slightly. Point made, Mulder sat up and crossed his legs. "How's your son?" "He'll be fine," Whitlow cleared his throat and closed the file. "I'd like to apologize for my manner earlier today -" Mulder shook his head. "You can't help but worry about your children. There's nothing to apologize for," Out of the corner of his eye he saw Scully glance at her hands. "I have to say that I wasn't expecting anyone from the FBI, not anymore." "How do you mean?" Scully asked. "I requested help three weeks ago when we found April. Now I'm not a medical examiner -" "No, he leaves that up to me. I'm Oona MacArthur, your local coroner and medical examiner," A tall woman with cropped white hair, dressed in jeans and a fuzzy brown cowl neck sweater, smelling of smoke and rose attar, stepped around Mulder's chair. She stuck her hand out. "Oh, don't get up." Mulder stood anyway, introduced himself and Scully. He was pleasantly surprised at being able to look her directly in the eye. Tall, indeed, and quite attractive. She wore tiny circled five point silver stars in her ears, and a silver moonstone ring. MacArthur shook Scully's hand, then leaned against the nearest filing cabinet, folding her arms. "Go on, Nathaniel, don't let me stop you." Whitlow continued on as if she hadn't interrupted. "There's something funny about April's death - " "That's an understatement," MacArthur muttered. "She was found face down in the shallows by Pond River bridge. I think she was supposed to look like a suicide, but if it was, well, pigs can fly." "How so?" Mulder asked in tandem with Scully. "She hadn't broken through the ice," Whitlow said bluntly. "Not completely. Rob MacArthur found her lying face down in the fishing hole he'd cut only a couple of days before. It hadn't snowed that week, but it was cold enough for her to have frozen into it." Scully frowned and looked at the coroner. "Did she drown?" "She certainly did. And she did inhale Pond River water. But, I didn't find any of the cuts or abrasions you'd expect when someone falls down an embankment. She was wearing mittens, and there wasn't a mark on them. There was no evidence of sexual assault, either." "I'd like to take a look at her body," Scully said. MacArthur glanced guiltily at the Sheriff, shrugged apologetically. "She was cremated." Mulder sighed. "You also have to understand that the bridge is only what, four or five feet above the river, which is also at its shallowest until the next bend," said Whitlow, leaning back in his chair. He shook his head. "If she didn't slip and fall, she would've had to have climbed over the railing or the snowbank to get to the ice. And to what purpose? We didn't find any fishing equipement. It doesn't make any damned sense." "I couldn't rule out a suicide," MacArthur explained further. "But I sure as hell didn't like putting it on the death certificate." "I'd like to take a look out there if possible," Mulder said. Another outdoor location. "Is the bridge close to a house?" MacArthur pushed off the filing cabinet and stepped closer to Whitlow. She frowned. "Indian Farm's my brother's place. He and April didn't get along." Why did people always point in the direction they least wanted others to look? Scully glanced at him - divide and conquer. "What about Jenny Dubois?" "One thing's for sure, she didn't drown," Whitlow paused, then said, "Her organs...her face...do you think it's some kind of Hannibal Lector thing?" Mulder twitched one shoulder. "I don't know. We certainly can't rule out cannibalism, although I would have expected the thigh, calf, or breasts to be taken as well. Ed Gein skinned his victims because he wanted to be a woman, and making a woman-suit was the next best thing. Nevertheless, he wasn't a cannibal. Jeffrey Dahmer ate selected parts of his victims as a way of possessing their essential nature. I don't get the same feeling with our killer. Maybe he likes the taste. Human is supposed to be quite similar to pork in flavor." "Jesus," MacArthur grimaced and shuddered. "What about their roommate," Scully asked, reading from her field notes. "Elaine Weschler?" "Elaine works at Mysterious Ways, Jonas Putnam's bookstore. She's completely bewildered by these events, can't understand why anyone would want to kill either one of them. She did call us when Jenny didn't come home last night, but Jenny'd never told her what trails she was going on. Elaine thinks she remembers seeing her head towards Meadow Road, but can't be positive." "Y'know, South Trail's a hell of a long way from Meadow Road," MacArthur mused. "It's got to be, what, eighteen, twenty miles away? Depending, of course, how close to town she was when she started out. And she would have had to ski it back, assuming South Trail was her destination in the first place. Assuming she even started from Meadow Road. Jesus. Maybe someone gave her a ride?" Whitlow shook his head. "Nah, she was an excellent skier, was the alternate for the US cross-country team at the Junior Olympics when she was eighteen." "So where are her skis?" Mulder asked. "Are we overlooking the obvious, here?" Scully put her foot in. "There weren't any ski tracks around the body." She had a knack of making statements like that sound less like the accusations they were. Mulder wished she would share the secret with him. "And don't even think my troopers would be so stupid as to mess up a crime scene," Whitlow growled. "We're not hicks, y'know." "So if she didn't ski to the trail, how did she get there?" Mulder shifted in his seat, ignoring Whitlow's comment. "Did she ski along the road, then take the snowmobile trail into the forest? And if so, could not her killer have done the same?" "It's possible, and as likely as any other explanation at this stage," Whitlow said, rubbing his face with one hand. "Chances are, we find the ski's, we find the killer." Silence reigned for few moments. MacArthur suddenly brightened. "Agent Scully, Nathaniel tells me you're a forensic pathologist. Would you care to assist me in the examination of the body?" "I'd be happy to, Mrs MacArthur." "Oh, please, it's just Oona. No one's called me Mrs. since I got rid of the ball and chain," MacArthur rolled her eyes and headed for the gap in the filing cabinets, Scully in tow. "It's so nice to see more women in our profession - " "Oona's going to pluck your partner's brains dry," Whitlow grinned sourly and stood up. "Come on, I'll take you to the bridge." Ten minutes out of town they turned onto Indian Farm road, the dirty snow clear sign of its unpaved status. Beyond the high-beams, apart from a few clumps of trees, fields appeared to lay on either side of the road. How had April Mahoney gotten out here? "You were recommended." Mulder looked at the Sheriff. "Excuse me?" Whitlow's lips tightened. "A couple of days after we found April, I got an anonymous call. A man instructed me to ask specifically for you. April's death was so strange..." he shrugged one shoulder, shook his head. "Figured it couldn't hurt to have the resources of the FBI at hand." Interesting. So far there hadn't been anything to suggest there was anything remotely X-ish about the case. The only other thing he could think of was that someone wanted them out of Washington. Still seemed like a pretty far stretch. Maybe there was something odd here after all? After turning onto the left of another fork in the road, they arrived at the bridge, the yellow BRIDGES FREEZE BEFORE ROAD and white LEGAL LIMIT 4 TONS signs juddering in the gusts of wind. Whitlow didn't bother pulling the truck over to the side of the road. There wasn't much point, for with the snowbanks as high as they were another car couldn't pass anyway. Whitlow grabbed two heavy-duty flashlights out of the trunk and pointed Mulder to the right hand side of the bridge. "We found her on this side, about two yards over." Mulder wished to God he'd followed Scully's example and worn mukluks or Sorels instead of steel toed work boots. '"Your feet are going to freeze in those shitkickers"' she'd said. And she was right, along with the rest of him they were freezing. The faster he did this the sooner he could get back in the truck. The plows had pushed the snow over the bank and into the river, an ultimately useless attempt to avoid mud season and potholes. He hesitantly stepped on the flattened top of the snowbank, waited to see if the crust was solid enough to support his weight. It was, so he went forward with more confidence, playing the flashlight over the eroded concrete foundations and bastions of the bridge. The ice covered river wasn't far down and looked very shallow, unless the rocks poking up here and there were far larger underneath the water than they looked. Downstream, the river narrowed and bent sharply to the left before being cut out of sight by the bank. She stood at the edge - here. And if the snow had been soft enough - ? The edge crumbling away beneath her feet? No trees or tall weeds, nothing to grab onto. It had been icy, she'd slipped, maybe hit her head? But she'd be on her back, no? On the ice, the river having frozen over? So how did she end up face down in a fishing hole? How had her face broken the thin skin of ice covering the water? MacArthur had said Mahoney hadn't had any of the expected cuts and scrapes...why not? Because the ice had already been broken. Because she was meeting someone who was fishing, or who had already decided to kill her? Or she had done it herself? Laying down and deliberately inhaling water so cold it would have made her choke and cough and sputter, her skin burning from the frigid liquid? "You almost done, Agent Mulder?" Why had she been here? Who would she have met? Why here? He turned off the flashlight, let his eyes adjust as much as possible. Ah. Off in the distance, the porch light of a house. Yeah, he was done. "...ing my goddamned balls off..." Whitlow muttered under breath as Mulder climbed back into the truck. "Is that MacArthur's house?" "Ayuh. Indian Farm," he glared at Mulder. "I s'pose you want to go over and talk to John right now, hunh?" Mulder shook his head, said, mildly, "It can wait until tomorrow." The ride back was very quiet, Whitlow radiating anxiety tinged anger. Mulder didn't mind. Whitlow pulled up in front of three storey white house with a wrap around porch. A posted and lit wooden sign staked in the front yard read The Deacon Proctor Funeral Home. It waved in the constant breeze. Whitlow nodded. "Just press the bell. Oona's got it rigged so it rings in the basement, too." At Mulder's inquisitive look, he added, "We're just a small town, Agent Mulder. We don't have a hospital, we don't have a high school, hell, we don't even have 911. We make do with what we've got." Suitably told off, Mulder got out of the truck, watched it pull away. Whitlow was a good man, if moody and a little defensive. Anyway, it was too chilly out to stand here and ponder what it was like to live in a small town in a small state. Besides, he already knew, he'd grown up in a tiny town on a tiny island. A light flicked on in the hallway as soon as he rang the doorbell, Oona MacArthur appearing a few moments later. "Agent Mulder, come in, come in. Dana said you'd show up sooner rather than later." He followed her to the back and down the stairs, wondered what on earth possessed people to provide such a service. Oh, it was necessary, he well knew. Human beings needed their rituals, created them wherever they went, from Fiji to the Arctic circle. Half the time he didn't know how Scully was able to do what she did, what had drawn her to forensics in the first place. He'd have to ask her someday. The basement was plain, with a sloping concrete floor which had a drain in the middle. Lining the walls were a sink, two autopsy tables, a cabinet of instruments, a large refrigerator and six body bays. Mulder had to admit he was impressed. Lincoln may not have had 911, but it certainly knew how to treat a dead body. Scully looked up from Dubois' body. "Mulder, there's nothing here to indicate that she died in any other manner than what we saw at the crime scene." Mulder didn't really want to get any closer. Just because he'd seen plenty of bodies didn't mean he had gotten used to it. The odor of formaldehyde, disinfectant, and the underlying sickly sweet smell of decay was overpowering. Thank god it was winter, he hated having to deal with dripping, gassy corpses. No matter what Scully said, Vicks Vap-O-Rub under the nose simply didn't cut the mustard. And god forbid you should inhale through your mouth, that was even worse. "Mulder, are you listening to me?" "Horrific, Scully, that's what you said." "Actually, that was me," Oona said. She shook her head, staring at Dubois. "I can't believe someone did this to her. And Elaine, do you think she's in any danger?" It was a good question, but one he had already dismissed. "No. Both Jenny and April were out on their own, in or around wooded or relatively unpopulated areas where no one could hear them scream." Oona's expression changed to one of extreme distaste. "That's quite enough, Agent Mulder. I don't really want to hear any more of your theories. It's bad enough seeing what that monster did to her. Dana, if you're done, I'll go ahead and put her away." Scully nodded and started stripping off her gloves. "I'm all finished." Mulder headed towards the sink and Scully. He moved as close as possible, lowered his head and spoke quietly. "You didn't find anything at all out of the ordinary?" She glanced over her shoulder at Oona, spoke in the same soft tone. "Nothing. You wanted a plain and simple murder, well, you've certainly found one. She was tied up, but not unconscious, not for a long time. Tortured and mutilated," She shook her head, gazed earnestly into his eyes. "Mulder, whoever did this enjoys watching people suffer to a degree that I haven't encountered before, and with this level of degradation..." "I know," he said, nodding. "There's no way this man hasn't killed before, and every reason to believe he'll do it again. He's gone so far this time, I hate to imagine what he'll do next." "But you will." Her trust in his willingness to almost become a killer was touching. Her faith that he would return from that desolate place marvelous. He felt touched by the hand of God whenever she said such things. "I will." Manitou, by Dryad 4/13 disclaimer in part one (R) "Certain things - I love spend my time I guess I'll have to unhook those thoughts" Throwing Muses/Hook in Her Head/The Real Ramona On Oona's advice, Mulder and Scully left her to do the cleanup while they caught a bite to eat at the café. '"It's not gourmet, just plain food for plain people,"' she'd said, turning on the hose to wash down the table. The Chat 'N' Chew was the kind of place where everyone would have turned and stared had it been busy. As it was, there was only one other diner, an older man sitting at the counter. Wood was the predominant theme: creaky uneven wood floor, wooden tables of varying sizes, wooden chairs which didn't match, rough wooden frames for the black and white photographs of Ella and Duke and the Count on the walls. Billie Holiday wailed away from hidden speakers. "Have a seat wherever you like," the waitress said, pinning up a neon pink sign on the cork notice board. Mulder stopped. "Mephiskapheles?" She grinned. "Great name, eh? They're headlining with The Skatellites at the Burlington Ska Festival on New Year's. Gonna be a great show." Ah, youth. At least he knew what the hell ska was. Mulder chose a two seater table near one of the two windows. "I think I'd kill for a bowl of chicken noodle soup," Scully said, hanging her coat over the back of her chair. She rubbed her arms, shivering. "We've got Shaker Turkey Noodle," the waitress said brightly. She put menu's before them, filled their glasses with water. Scully nodded. "I'll take a bowl of that, please." Mulder quickly perused the menu. "Nothing for me, thank you." "Would you like coffee or tea?" "Do you have any hot chocolate?" Mulder asked, ignoring Scully's raised brows. "And tea for her." "Sure. Be back in a jiffy." He studiously looked anywhere but his partner's face. Thankfully, she didn't take the opportunity to make a smart remark. There was nothing wrong with a grown man wanting a little comfort food. "So, hot chocolate?" she asked, idly playing with a packet of sugar. "Yup," he said. The waitress returned with their drinks. Mulder eyed his cup, then looked up at the waitress, who was sharing a moment of feminine conspiracy with Scully. Always made him nervous when women did that. The waitress glanced at him and said, "You looked like a man in need of mini-marshmallows." He watched her walk away, and when he looked back at Scully, her face was tight with suppressed mirth. "I'm glad you're amused." She stopped, then, regarded him with eyes of infinitely gentle wisdom. "Oh, Mulder." He wished he could figure out what he did to make her look at him like that. He didn't see it all that often, and he liked the way it changed her bearing. Which always brought him back to wondering how far would she have gone, had she not been attached to him, to the X-Files. Married, no doubt, with living children. No scars, mental or physical. Her sister would still be breathing. Of course he'd probably be dead by now, but that wasn't necessarily a drawback. Right. He said, "Did I ever tell you the chicken story?" She looked doubtful. "Is this something I want to hear while I'm eating?" Mulder blinked. This from the woman who got meal ideas from cadavers? "Sure you do. Check this out - " With opportune timing, her soup arrived, along with copious bags of oyster crackers, bread and butter. Scully eyed him, pushed the basket of rolls his way. He dutifully picked at one. Why they bothered with this sham was beyond him. He'd pretend to eat on the first day, she'd pretend to assume he was eating on the days thereafter, for as long as the case took to solve. Once the case was over he chowed down like the starved man that he was, and she didn't comment on it. She never failed him in their little on-the-road rituals. "So these cops are patrolling a well-known lover's lane, playing catch-me-if-you-can with the local teens, when they interrupt a couple parked in the yellow zone. They give the couple the low-down, but the guy tells them to check out the car down the road. He says they were going to park there - " "Safety in numbers," Scully mumbled, crumbling another bag of crackers over her bowl. Mulder nodded. "Yeah, really. Anyway, the guy says he was going to park with the other car, but when they peered in, the other guy was in the backseat screwing a chicken." Scully gawped, spoon halfway to her mouth. "He was what?" "So the cops go check it out, and sure enough, he's doing the horizontal mambo with a feathered friend. What's more, he's videotaping the whole thing." "Oh - my - god." Mulder nodded again gleefully. "I know, can you believe it?" "But, Mulder - how - why - ?" "I've seen the tape, Scully, and all I can say is that there are some things Man Was Not Meant To Know. And yes," he added, because everyone wanted information on one particular point. "He was a fully formed and functional adult male in that regard." She looked down at her half-empty bowl with an expression of amused disgust. "I'm never going to eat chicken again." "Then my work here is done," he solemnly intoned. Scully snorted and finished her soup, ordered hot Indian Pudding for dessert, from which Mulder snuck a couple of spoonfuls. They returned to the Lincoln Inn and turned in for the night, each going to their separate rooms to start their field reports. Mulder turned the tv on, let it drone away quietly in the background while he fluffed the pillows and put them against the headboard of his bed. He undressed, slipped into sweats. Thank god he'd thought of bringing them along, it was too chilly to sleep only in boxers even though the radiator was hot to the touch. After flipping channels for awhile, he decided that YO!MTV RAPS was perhaps the lesser of evils. But not by much. He fondly remembered the days when rapping was something you did with your knuckles against a door. When he was all settled and comfy, he uncapped his pen, opened his field journal and began to write: "Good fences make good neighbors" That's how Robert Frost's Mending Wall ends. It begins: "Something there is that does not love a wall" Fences and boundaries, whether mental or physical, are of no importance to the killer. He feels no constraints. He is not sloppy, nor does he care if his victims are discovered. Location is unimportant? Confident in his skills as a predator. An older man, not comfortable with his place in the world. Or rather, he is comfortable, but wants recognition of...something. A bright man, yet a failure in life. Low education. Envious. Enraged. Self-important. Victims of little consideration. A loner. No relationships. Parents deceased? Organs as trophies? Cannibal? Mulder chewed on the end of the pen for a moment, watched a scantily clad woman gyrate against a gold-toothed rapper, eyes heavy with fake lust. Hates women. Sexual organs untouched. Hates men too? No mutilation beyond removal of the face and scalp. The human body as trash. Freedom in the woods. Local, knows the trails. Survivalist? How does he find his victims? Who does he think he is? What's the trigger? What's the payoff? Why now? Why? There was a knock at the door. He checked his watch - eleven-thirty. "Come in," he called. As expected, Scully entered his room. She too was dressed in sweats. "Couldn't sleep," she said, sliding next to him, but under the covers. "I figured you'd still be up." "Mm. Want the remote?" "God, yes. Can't stand this crap." Mulder reread what he had written, closed the notebook and put it on the sidetable. He had the basics of the killer down, but was missing some of the fundamentals. People who could do such things...and why were there so many of them, why now? A person who could do this didn't arrive fully formed overnight, no, it took years of development. "Let's get a list of all missing persons for the last ten years in the morning." Scully glanced at him. "You think he's been practicing?" He smiled grimly. "You're getting better at profiling with each and every case, Scully. VCS and the ISU won't need me at all." "Yeah, right," she smirked and shook her head, frowned as she flipped through the same channels he had. "Why's everything in french?" "Canadian cable. Hey, hockey!" "Isn't there anything better on?" she asked with the tone of the long-suffering. "Speaking personally, as an American and a sports fan, that's heresy, Scully." "Mm." "There are various made-for-tv movies, Jerry Springer, cartoons, and CBC news. And it's all in french." Scully sighed. "Hockey it is." Manitou, by Dryad 5/13 disclaimer in part one (R) "It is in the heart itself lies live, and deceit How can I speak thereof wisely, with gentleness?" Hedningarna/Vargtimmen/Tra (trans.) Mulder awoke to the smell of bacon. Rubbing sticky eyes, he sat up, checking to see if Scully had spent the night. Of course she hadn't. But she'd tucked him under the covers and turned off the lights. Fifteen minutes later he was downstairs, nibbling on a piece of bacon and gulping down hot black coffee while Scully put her coat and gloves on. Mae seemed put out that he didn't want a bigger breakfast. The roads were slick from freezing rain, and Mulder drove slowly and carefully to Indian Farm. It wasn't a big place, consisting of a two storey white house, decrepit red barn, two silo's leaning against one another at crazy angles. A few Holsteins wandered in a paddock. Shaggy cattle of a kind Mulder had never seen before stood in the field across from the house, chewing hay and looking mournful. The front door opened as they got out of the car, and a dark haired man around thirty years old called, "You the FBI?" Mulder flashed his creds. "I'm Special Agent Mulder, this is Special Agent Scully. May we come in?" "My father's out in the north field, got a fence to fix." Scully said, "And you are..." "Rob MacArthur." Once inside the house, four huge dogs milled around their legs, tails wagging, barking happily and looking for pats. "Luna, Cosmo, get down!" MacArthur shouted, hauling an English setter and a golden Lab off of Mulder. "Sorry 'bout that. Babur! Damnit, Molly, go lie down!" He led the two of them into the living room, which was crammed with furniture, one couch of which the dogs apparently claimed as their own, judging by the amount of hair on the blankets. Everything from tv to books to half-completed jigsaw puzzle, looked well used. Not poor, necessarily, so much as evidence of that infamous Yankee thriftiness. The room smelled of dog and pipe tobacco and woodsmoke. In the far corner a woman dressed in black sat at a round table playing Solitaire. She didn't look up as they entered. "Hey Rob, maybe we should call the police? He's been gone since last night, and he always calls if he's going to be kept up..." MacArthur motioned towards her. "This my wife, Perouze. Agent Scully, Agent Mulder. FBI." Like Scully, Mrs. MacArthur was a truly beautiful woman, the kind of beauty that only made itself known to the person who could see beyond the mundane. Her features were classically Caucasoid, with startling sea-green eyes, wavy hair the color of molasses, honeyed skin, hooked nose. Her accent placed her somewhere around the Mid-East. Enough of the niceties, however. Mulder said, "We'd like to talk to you about April Mahoney." MacArthur shot his wife a hard look. "What about her - she's dead." Mrs. MacArthur pursed her shapely lips. She stood. "Agent Scully, you look cold. I'll make you some tea." Scully glanced at Mulder as she followed the other woman out of the room. "'Perouze', that's a pretty name - " MacArthur scowled and threw himself onto a pea green armchair. He gazed out the window, chewing on a dirt-ingrained fingernail. "She was just a local. Knew her all my life. Finding her like that..." He turned towards Mulder. "Her hair was picked up by the wind, looked like it was alive. She weren't, though. Never seen a dead person before." "Why was she out there?" He removed his finger long enough to lick his lips. "Dunno." Mulder didn't say the obvious. No woman in their right mind, without a car, would hike six miles to the middle of nowhere just to drown herself. At night. Especially when there were much more convenient methods right at home. "How did you meet your wife?" MacArthur startled at the non sequitur. "Perouze? I was stationed in the Med, met her on leave in Istanbul. She's Armenian. Couple of years later we met again at UVM, hooked up, got married." "Children?" "Nope." Mulder just looked at the man. Dressed in a grubby white turtleneck with a red flannel overshirt, olive corduroys, and thick wool socks, he was the epitome of the smalltime working farmer. Unhappiness came off of him in waves. "What do you think happened to her?" "Dunno." One of the dogs, the giant German Shephard, wandered over and sat down, looked at Mulder with big 'I'll be your bestest friend forever and ever if you just pet me' brown eyes. Defeated, he scratched the dog behind the ears. "What kind of cattle are those in the field in front?" A frown, then. "Highland. Used to be strictly dairy, but the price of milk dropped too much. We switched a few years ago. Good market for organic beef these days." Thankfully Scully chose to reappear, Mrs. MacArthur one step behind, saving him from having to learn more about modern farming techniques. She'd probably found out more information than he had, anyway. "Rob, when's Steve going to be back?" Mrs. MacArthur asked, hands on hips. "Hell if I know," MacArthur shot out of the chair, face set. He gestured angrily at Mulder. "If you're done, I got work to do." Once outside, making their way slowly to the car, Mulder asked, "So, what did she have to say?" "She knows, Mulder. "That he was having an affair?" Scully cast him a sidelong smile. "You're getting better with each and every case. Pretty soon you won't need me at all. He threw his head back and faked silent laughter. "Apparently he swore he broke it off with April months ago, but his wife remains doubtful." Mulder took the keys out of his pocket, unlocked the door. "Maybe he did - " " - and of course it's an extremely unfortunate occurrence that she died only a mile and a half from his front door." "It is plausible, Scully." She put her seat belt on, pausing long enough to glare at him. "Don't give me any of that 'plausible' crap, Mulder." He grinned. It really was an overused word. Despite attempts to ban it from their collective vocabulary, and unlike April Mahoney, it kept resurrecting itself. "He's not our killer, Scully. The only thing Rob MacArther's guilty of is poor judgement." Scully nodded. "She is beautiful, isn't she." Trust Scully to notice. It was at times like these that he was grateful he had a female partner. A male agent would probably have commented on her bed warming ability, rather than the stupidity of her husband. He liked sex just as much as the next man, but he didn't see the world through hormone glazed eyes. Well, not usually, anyway. The car slid a little at the bottom of the driveway. He slipped into four-wheel drive, made a mental note to thank Avis for providing a Subaru when they returned to Burlington. Miserable weather to be driving around in. Maybe he'd take a long hot bath later on, if there was time. "Mulder?" Blue lights flashed ahead. Mulder stopped, rolled down the window. The wind may not have been blowing, but the rain and damp sent the chill straight to his bones. Deputy Lancaster walked up, water dripping off the brim of his hat. "We've got another one over by the pond. Follow me." It was too damn soon. Mulder revised his timetable. Mahoney, drowned. Dubois, disemboweled. There had to be others, maybe in the next county? No. Although Lancaster had chains on his tires, he drove slowly enough for Mulder to follow without fear of going off the road. They turned onto Pond River road soon after crossing the bridge. Odd, he didn't recall seeing a road when out here with Whitlow. Hmm, he'd probably been distracted. Or maybe it was deliberate on Whitlow's part? Nah, that was being too paranoid, even for him. They arrived at the scene forty-five minutes later. The victim's car, a tan Subaru hatchback spotted with rust, was parked by a large and curiously flat field, which must have been said Pond the river and road were named after. A copse of paper birches lined the pond on the far side. A lime green piece of plastic sat on the hood of the car. The snow was getting increasingly sticky underfoot, for which Mulder was grateful. Whitlow and some troopers were huddled around something on the ground behind the Subaru. Whitlow glanced over his shoulder as Mulder and Scully approached. "It's a bad one, another local, Sarah Chapman. Teacher at the school. Looks like she pulled over to clear the ice off her windshield when she was attacked. Deputy Goddard found her on routine patrol." Like Jenny Dubois, she was lying on her back, staring up at the sky, head nothing but white bone and tiny strips of red meat covered with a glistening layer of ice. She wore jeans and a navy jacket patched on the shoulder with silver duct tape, the roll of a thick black sweater visible above the jacket's collar. Her clothes were frosted with ice and blood. A cherry stain surrounded her, draining towards the pond. Mulder tilted his head to one side - there was - she didn't look right. "Scully?" She had crouched down and was looking at the body intently. "All of the long bones in her legs are broken - femurs, tibiae, fibulae - I'm guessing both humeri and ulnae - her arms - are, too. That requires a tremendous amount of force, Mulder." One of the troopers stumbled away and dry heaved into the snow. "So she was run over?" another one, a blonde woman, said. Scully regarded the woman steadily. "No." "Sweet Jesus," Whitlow muttered. He rubbed his mouth as if he tasted something bitter. Scully stood up. "Were there any tracks?" "Not that we can tell," said the blonde, motioning towards the pond. "Unfortunately the overnight rain's obliterated just about all the evidence besides the body." "Sheriff Whitlow," Mulder said. "I'd like a list of all missing persons in the area." "And I'd like to assist in the autopsy," Scully chimed in. Whitlow nodded. "Oona's on her way. Unfortunately I can't accommodate you, Agent Mulder." "Excuse me?" "We don't have any missing persons, haven't had any since we found Jenny." "What about MacArthur?" Mulder asked, wishing he'd asked back at Indian farm. Whitlow looked at him blankly. "Which one?" "Stephen," Scully said. "Mrs. MacArthur says he never returned last night from his concert in Waterloo." "Aw hell," Whitlow said, stepping towards his truck. "I'd better go over there and talk to them." "Scully, I'm going to head back to the office, talk to Elaine Weschler. Do you want the car?" She shook her head. "I'll catch a ride." Manitou, by Dryad 6/13 disclaimer in part one (R) "Once I lived on lakes, once I looked beautiful when I was a swan" Carl Orff/Olim Lacus Colueram/Carmina Burana (trans.) Mulder cleared the desk Whitlow had temporarily given him, put all the papers on the desk opposite. Some bright spark had gotten copies of the women's drivers licenses and blown up the pictures. He was struck by the similarities between the three, and wondered how none of the deputies had picked up on it before. To put it more plainly, they were ugly. Oh, not in a 'needs plastic surgery right away' sense, just extraordinarily plain, and not in a good way, either. Eyes were set too narrow, noses too sharp, teeth too small or too horsey, stained and crooked, hair limp and straggled. From there they were completely different. Dubois was forty pounds overweight, Chapman positively anorexic, while Mahoney rolled in at precisely the insurance table level for her age. Their ages spanned across twelve years. None were married or in a relationship as far as Whitlow knew. Mahoney was local, Dubois and Chapman both out-of-staters. No children, no pets. All had lived in Lincoln for at least five years. He leaned back in his chair, staring at the pictures he'd taped to the wall. They had known their killer, he'd put money on it. Oona hadn't found any evidence that Mahoney had struggled against her killer, not that they would ever know now that she was nothing but grit and ash. Dubois hadn't put up a struggle, and he'd bet Chapman had been surprised. She probably hadn't even known what hit her. So what did their killer see in them? Or had it merely been opportunity? How did he know them? By sight? Did he work in the area, doing something...mail delivery? Garbage pickup? No, both of those would be too close to real jobs, requiring self-motivation and discipline, the subjection of the self to outside authority. "Agent Mulder?" The dispatcher peered at him from the front desk. "Agent Scully's on line four." Mulder picked up the phone, pressed the requisite button. "What've you got?" "She was beaten almost to death, Mulder, but was ultimately strangled. She has bruises on her throat, but the roll of the sweater's preventing us from getting any indication of what was used, although we're sure it wasn't a ligature. Besides her hyoid bone, there are three fractures in the skull, multiple fractures in the arms and legs, and get this, five of her vertebrae were shattered. Even her pelvic girdle has cracks in it. We've found boot marks on her stomach, but I don't think we can get a clean print from her, there's too much damage. He must have jumped up and down on her. No organs were removed, probably because they'd already burst. Rather than her face and scalp being cleanly cut off as they were with Jenny Dubois, here the edges are ragged, as if he were in a great hurry." "Or enraged," Mulder added. God, this was all going to hell in a handbasket far more quickly than he had anticipated. "Time of death?" "Hard to tell with this weather, but I think last night sometime. What do you think he's going to do next?" Mulder shook his head in frustration. "Kill again. I think he's moved into the spree stage, Scully. We've got to find Stephen MacArthur as soon as possible. I'm going to talk to Elaine Weschler. Were can I find you?" "I'll be here. We've got a little more work to do." Mysterious Ways focussed on the metaphysical, slanted heavily towards christian mysticism and thought, although both Marianne Williamson and Deepak Chopra had a lot of face-outs on the shelves. One entire stack was dedicated to A Course In Miracles. He approached the brunette unboxing books by the register. "Excuse me, I'm looking for Elaine Weschler?" "That would be me," she said, pale blue eyes nearly colorless against the dark circles underneath her lower lids. Grief had etched heavy lines across her face. "You the FBI?" News did travel fast in small towns. "Special Agent Fox Mulder. I'd like to ask you a few questions." She shrugged, pulled out a couple of books out of the box, turning them his way, no doubt trying to make a sale while they spoke. H.R.F. Keating - Bad Detective and Inspector Ghote Trusts The Heart. "I told the police everything I know." "Were either Jenny or April dating anyone?" "No. No way, I would've known about it." "Why do you think April went to Indian Farm?" Weschler broke down the box and put it behind the counter before answering. "Maybe she went for a walk, I don't know." "Was she a nice person?" "She was beautiful," Weschler murmured, gazing at the counter with a hint of a smile before looking up at him with narrowed eyes and tight lips. "We weren't lovers y'know, just friends. Just friends." Another instance of people waving a red flag where they didn't want everyone to look. "Elaine, I don't pay you to stand there and gossip!" "He's from the FBI, Onatah," Weschler explained. The tiny Native American woman raked Mulder up and down with furious eyes. "I don't care if he's from Vatican City, you can talk to him on your own time." Mulder figured he wasn't going to get anything out of Weschler that he didn't already know, so he headed towards the Deacon Proctor. He made good time to the funeral home, due to the sidewalks having been sanded. The freezing rain had stopped, and the sun was making an appearance, a brief one by the looks of the clouds coming in from the northwest. Given good lighting, Lincoln was quite pretty. Apart from the spree killer in its midst, of course. Oona was having a smoke on the porch, dressed in scrubs and a white wool cardigan, arms wrapped tightly around herself. She gave him a funny look as he came up the steps. "I don't know how you do it." "Hunt killers?" She nodded, exhaled, stared out over the snow-covered lawn. "Dana tells me you were brilliant when you were in the ISU. I imagine such work takes its toll." He twitched one shoulder, watched her blow smoke rings. "I couldn't handle living people. Tried to become a medical doctor, but couldn't take the pain in their eyes. You only see the aftermath of violence when you work with the dead, not its presence," she paused, took another puff of her cigarette. "Y'know, I pray for them. I pray for their families to understand that their loved ones are no longer in pain, that they're in the comforting embrace of the universe, that they've moved on to another plane of existence," she cocked her head to one side, eyed him sidelong. "I'm not a christian." "I know," he said with a nod. "The pentagram earrings gave it away." She reached up and touched one of the studs in her ear. "Not many people notice." They watched in relaxed silence as the sunlight began to disappear, the clouds rolling in and turning the day darkly bright. A red Toyota drove by, crows cawed, a gray squirrel scampered along the driveway, stopping briefly to stare at them before moving on. He said, softly, "I feel...as if...part of my soul has been stained by what I do." She answered just as quietly. "In order to hunt evil, you have to understand it, acknowledge its existence within yourself." Mulder let her words roll through him like a balm. It didn't feel odd to have this conversation with a stranger rather than Scully. Evil was something they rarely discussed, mostly because he felt uncomfortable with the answers her faith provided, although he knew she questioned those answers from time to time. "You won't be seduced by the dark side, Agent Mulder," Oona said with a quiet smile, brown eyes twinkling. "You know it too well to be fooled by it." Scully opened the front door before he had a chance to answer. "I was wondering where you'd gotten to. Oona, I finished everything up downstairs," she folded her arms and shivered. "How long have you two been out here, it's freezing!" In all honesty Mulder hadn't even noticed. "I spoke to Elaine Weschler. She didn't have much to say, but I got the distinct impression that she and Jenny Dubois were more than good friends." "Really?" Oona stubbed out her cigarette in the sand filled coffee can duly provided for the purpose. "Certainly does explain a lot. Oh, I think I hear the phone. 'Scuse me - " "And she knew about April Mahoney and Rob MacArthur." "So now what?" "See what Whitlow's come up with about Stephen MacArthur," Mulder let out a long breath. "He's here, Scully, right under our noses, and I can't see the forest for the trees." She said nothing, but gently touched his arm, the merest pressure of her fingertips through coat, pullover, Henley, and tee enough to ground his fear and frustration. Until she had come into his life, he hadn't realized that he had needed a lightning rod all along. Brilliance didn't count for much if you weren't sane enough to do something with it. Oona returned, closing and locking the front door. Her face was filled with relief when she turned around. "They've got Stephen. He's at Nathaniel's office. I'll drive." Minutes later Oona threw her arms around a thin and bedraggled man in his late twenties who was sitting in a chair, wrapped in a silver space blanket. He was pale skinned and dark haired, with white blotches of frostnip on his nose and fingers. "Nana, I'm all right. Just need some food, something hot to drink." Mulder contemplated the man while Scully took over from the deputy examining MacArthur. He wasn't ugly. "What happened?" MacArthur shivered, lost in memory. "I was on my way back from Waterloo - I'd gone to see Excelerated Decrepitude at The Nightingale - when it started sleeting. I've only got all-season radials on the car, so I stopped to put the chains on. The next thing I know, I'm being dragged through the woods," he stopped, took a swig of tea from the mug he was handed. "Did you see his face?" Whitlow demanded. "Where'd you pull over?" Mulder asked at the same time. "No. It was too dark to see his face. I don't know where the hell I parked," MacArthur swallowed, shook his head. "Christ, I didn't leave Waterloo until what, one or two in the morning? I could barely see the road, never mind which stretch of it I parked on." He took another sip of tea, frowned. "Anyway, my hands weren't tied, so I tried to reach out and grab something to hit him with. That's when I realized that we were in the woods - my hands kept hitting tree trunks. We must have been on a ski trail. He had to have been on ski's, cause we were going too slow for snowmobiles. The trail was too narrow. And it was real quiet." Come on, man. Mulder felt impatience creep up to soaring levels. He tried not to fidget. "I finally got hold of a loose branch, hit him across the legs," MacArthur's voice cracked. He sniffled, took a deep breath and continued. "He fell and I hit him across the head a couple of times, then jumped into the woods. I ran. I didn't know where the hell I was going. I just ran." "How did you find your way to the road?" asked Oona. "Luck, nana. I spent most of the night trying to get to a high spot, so I could look for lights." "Oh, Stevie," She slipped one arm around his shoulders and held him tight. "I saw lights flashing off a couple of trees and ran that way. Ran, huh, stumbled, more like. Finally found the road, picked a direction and started walking until Suzie Dulac picked me up on her mail run," his voice broke as he buried his head in his hands. "He needs to go to a hospital as soon as possible," Scully said to the nearest deputy. Mulder stepped away from Oona and her weeping nephew, motioned Scully and Whitlow over. "He's a lucky man." "He has a remarkable memory," Scully said to Whitlow. "Steve's a lawyer, just passed the Vermont Bar after working in Boston for a few years," Whitlow replied, looking back at MacArthur. "Who knows the forest well enough to drag somebody away without fear of discovery?" Mulder asked, listening intently to what Whitlow as well as his backbrain were telling him. Whitlow shrugged. "Depends on what you mean by 'well enough'. We're country folk, we're all familiar with the local trails winter and summer." "All right," Mulder closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Here's who we're looking for: a white male, aged forty to fifty- five. A loner, dull and unfashionable in appearance. He's had jobs of little value all his life, and may go through long periods of unemployment. He's smart, but it's more a matter of animal cunning than superb intelligence. He has little or no family and lives by himself. He may or may not have a vehicle, but if he does it'll be an older model. He's very familiar with the area, most likely grew up here, and knew the victims well enough to approach them without them being nervous. He won't have a firearm, but consider him extremely dangerous. And he'll have a large build, muscular without being fat." "What about Jocelyn?" The dispatcher called. She waited for Oona and Stephen to pass her before approaching Mulder. "He lives out by South Trail." "Come on Peggy, he wouldn't hurt a fly," Whitlow dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand, then turned to Mulder with an air of apology. "Jocelyn Kaspar's one of the local's. He does odd jobs here and there, keeps to himself, mostly." Peggy shook her head in disagreement, unnaturally black hair brushing her shoulders. "I've never liked him. He's creepy. And he smells funny." Mulder nodded to himself. "Troublemaker?" "Not lately." "How soon can we talk to him?" Whitlow said, "It'll have to be tomorrow morning. The snowmobiles are still being serviced." "I want to leave as early as possible." "Alright, we'll meet here at four in the a-m. But Agent Mulder, I don't see how Jocelyn's got anything to do with this." Manitou, by Dryad 7/13 disclaimer in part one (R) "I should not sing at all, feeling so low with thoughts so bleak. Mournful of heart is this bird, and barren its tongue. The frozen marsh will thaw in time, the frosty ground will melt and swell, the very seashore may crumble but this sorrow will not go away - here the chill yet lingers" Varttina/Mieleni Alenevi/Vihma (trans.) Scully was hungry, so Mulder accompanied her to the Chat 'N' Chew, drank coffee and stole fries from her plate, hoping all the while that their killer didn't already have his next victim. What the hell were they going to do until the morning? "Mulder, what the hell are we going to do until tomorrow morning?" "You just read my mind." She sighed, pushed her plate over so he could eat the remaining fries. "Do you think it's Kaspar?" Nodding, he licked salt from his fingertips. "Positive. Did you see the look on Peggy's face when she was talking about him?" "Yeah. I wonder why Whitlow doesn't think of him as a suspect?" "It's a funny thing, Scully, how many distrust their own gut instincts when it comes to other people. The mask of civilized behavior takes control, and we choose to stand when we should be running, saying yes when we should be saying no, staying on the sidewalk when we should be crossing the street. Can you imagine what would happen if we all behaved on intuition?" "The end of the world as we know it? That 'mask of behavior', as you call it, is necessary if we're going to continue on as a species." "Is it?" Mulder took a sip of blessedly fresh coffee. "Says who?" "Says me," she replied. "There would be no one to catch these people if it weren't for civilized behavior. No one would care save for the families that were impacted. I'm sorry, Mulder, but on this you're wrong." "I don't think so. How many times have living victims told us that they knew better, that there was something strange about their polite neighbor or that real quiet kid down the street, the one who seemed to lose an awful lot of pets?," He raised a hand as the waiter walked by. "Check, please." Scully shook her head. "But instinct, intuition, neither are infallible. And what about people with severe psychoses? Would you expect them to be able to judge others accordingly? How could they use their intuition when their brains are telling them something completely different?" "Didn't I just say that?" "No, you were talking about the average person. You have to recognize that someone who might be hearing voices in their head or whose brain isn't producing sufficient quantities, or too many quantities, of certain chemicals, is not going to react the same way as someone in complete control of their faculties." "True enough." "Without civilization, which, I might add, also produced people like us, we'd have no way of protecting either them or ourselves, nor of meting out justice if we haven't foreseen what they're capable of doing." "The point, Scully, is that I could have saved a life by mentioning my profile earlier." She stared at him in disbelief. "Mulder - what are you talking about? We only got here yesterday." Mulder lowered his voice as other diners looked their way. "Chapman was killed because MacArthur got away. Look at the damage he did to her. How much more angry do you think he's going to get? He's not going to wait any longer than absolutely necessary to kill again." "You're not a soothsayer, you can't predict the future -" His lips quirked slightly. "Can't I? Isn't that what I'm doing here? Trying to predict the future?" "No. *We* are here to solve this case and prevent more lives from being lost," she leaned towards him. "You're not him, Mulder, nor are you responsible for his behavior." The waiter returned and Mulder paid, feeling guilty for taking his own fear out upon his partner. The truth was that he was terrified that any mistake he made would endanger the lives of others. It had happened before. Loathe as he was to admit it, sometimes he needed the reassurance that it wasn't all his fault. Thus was the burden of protecting the innocent, the fear of losing his sanity, somewhat eased. Scully talked him into walking around town, which took all of thirty minutes, although he did buy a pair of Sorels at Delmar's, the general store. He convinced her that the rest of their evening could be better spent writing up reports, so they returned to the Inn. Mulder had just closed the foyer door when a deep voice boomed out, "You must be Mulder and Scully. I'm Ken Crandall, out of the Burlington Regional Office." From the timbre of his voice Mulder expected to see a black man, but when he turned he was surprised to see Scully shaking hands with a jeans and sweater clad blue-eyed, blond behemoth. He had a tan, spoke with a strong Californian accent, and had to be at least 6'4", with a physique that would make Skinner look puny by comparison. How All American. Had Barbie booked a room, too? Mulder gave himself a mental shake. The guy hadn't done anything but say 'hello' and already he was irritated. It had nothing to do with the way he was looking at Scully. Nothing at all. "And you're here to...?" "ASAC O'Connell wanted to make sure this case was wrapped up nice and quick and clean." "I don't quite understand what you're doing here, Agent Crandall," Scully said. "Agent Mulder and myself have the situation under control." "Ours is not to wonder why," Crandall gave her a lazy, confident smile, shrugged. "Maybe O'Connell doesn't want his rep sullied. I was told to come and help apprehend this animal, so, here I am. What can you tell me about our UNSUB?" Mulder mentally sighed. "Nothing in great detail. He's white, forty to fifty-five, with great physical strength. He's local to the area." "Well hell, Mulder, that describes half the damned state!" Crandall spoke with jovial irritation. Keeping his eyes on Mulder, he bent down towards Scully and stage-whispered, "'Spooky' my ass. Anyone could have come up with that profile. Is that the best he can do?" "It's not done yet," Mulder answered mildly. It had been a long time since he'd had to defend his abilities, and it was almost amusing having to do it again. Of course Crandall was as transparent as glass. Mulder highly doubted anyone had sent Crandall, more like the agent had 'suggested' he come over and keep an eye on ol' Spooky. Ridiculous. "What kind of physical evidence have you found from our killer, Dana?" "Very little thus far, and Agent Scully will do," she said, pushing past Crandall to go upstairs. "Excuse me." Brows raised, Crandall licked his lips as he watched her leave. "She's a mighty fine morsel." Silence seemed Mulder's best option. Crandall nudged Mulder with his elbow. "You got dibs?" For a moment Mulder was rendered speechless. He was, in fact, extraordinarily offended. It was bad enough in Washington as it was, he didn't want to deal with this kind of gossip in the field as well. A kick to the balls and a knee in the face seemed a bit excessive. Sarcasm would just fly over his valley-boy head. Playing it straight might confuse the hell out of him. "Why don't you ask her?" Caught out, Crandall blinked stupidly at Mulder before going into a good-ol' frat boy routine that probably fooled a hell of a lot of people. He clapped a blunt-fingered hand on Mulder's shoulder and chuckled. "Are you kidding me? Thanks, but I value my life. They don't call her the Ice Queen for nothing, y'know," And then, as if to assuage his faux pas, "But hey, I hear she's a shit hot investigator." "She is," Mulder said, moving out from underneath Crandall's grasp. "If you'll excuse me, I have to complete my profile." The other agent nodded amiably. "Sure, sure. I'll go talk to the local law, see if I can get this moving any faster." And the Bureau's rep takes a nose dive with yet another police department. Mulder didn't bother to watch Crandall leave. He went upstairs to his room, collected pen and journal, knocked softly on Scully's door. "It's me." She opened it, looked down the hallway. "Is he gone?" "Yeah," he said, entering her room. "Whitlow's going to flip." "Is it just me or is Crandall a complete ass?" She sat down at the vanity and powered up her laptop. Mulder made himself comfy on her bed. "It's not you. Where do they get these people? And why do they insist on sending them out of their natural habitat?" She twisted around in her chair to look at him, murmured, "He's certainly gotten under your skin." "Destined to go far, then," he grumbled. He shoved the pillows behind his back and listened to her type, looked out the window. Five in the afternoon and it was almost pitch black outside. Washington didn't have the New England quality of light, which his father had loved. In winter the sun rose at a certain angle and painted everything with an odd mix of warm and cold, bright and dark. Leafless trees were a forcible record of the season, skeletal limbs stark reminder of the dying of the world. The dying of the light. Fimbulvetr. Yet pines and fir grew prolifically, red barberries standing out against the bloodrust leaves of the barberry bush, cheerful crimson hollies from evergreen needles, yellow and orange bittersweet clinging wherever it could get a root-hold. Signs of life amidst death. He felt like Persephone in the Underworld, sucking a single pomegranate seed. Yes, his father had loved the light. Mulder sighed and drew a few doodles in the margins of the journal. Pentagrams, crosshatched boxes, a game of tic-tac-toe. A sketch of Scully's face in profile. God, he could be the king of procrastination sometimes. He took a deep breath and cleared his mind, began to write: # # I'm in the forest. It's where I live. I am Alpha. I am Omega. I am God. # # He wants recognition that he is God. He takes life because that is what God does. April Mahoney was his practice run, his practice run, his - his His what? Mulder shifted, crossed his ankles the other way around. Did Scully always tap her toe when she typed? Oh, the alliteration. She sells seashells by the sea shore. How much wood could a woodchuck chuck - His practice run outside the forest. Visible as God. Invisible as Man. Immortal. God can take anyone at any time. God is beholden to no one. Jenny Dubois had stolen into the realm of God with neither his notice nor permission. Restitution - sacrifice - had to be made for her error. Stephen MacArthur erred by running away from God. Sarah Chapman was put on earth for the use of God, an apology from Fate for Stephen MacArthur. The question kept returning: why didn't he flay all their faces off? What was the rush? "Mulder, are you coming?" Scully was standing by the open door. "Hm?" "You didn't hear a thing I just said, did you?" "Sorry, Scully." "Mae made dinner. Pot roast." Mulder glanced at his watch - three hours had passed. He shook his head. "No, not hungry." He continued to doodle once she had closed the door. Did all serial killers think of themselves as gods? Maybe that was the wrong question, after all, who wouldn't feel like a god in the same situation? Perhaps the godhood came in choosing to use that power for good or ill. Yet, he couldn't honestly remember ever feeling that way during the times he'd been in the same position. Maybe his morals constrained him. Or did it come down to wanting the power in the first place? What kind of person did you have to be to desire the power of death over life? Some would argue that trauma doctors and firefighters and cops all wanted to be nothing more than little gods, but surely they only used their skills for good, apart from a few bad apples? No, serial killers lacked something fundamental, something unidentifiable. Sure, the research came up with the usual pointers: parental alcoholism, physical and mental abuse with resultant bedwetting, animal abuse, pyromania. But millions of people experienced the same things, yet grew up to be stable and functioning members of society. So what made these murderers different? The brain injury theory had yet to pan out, although there was factual evidence that certain types of brain damage could radically alter personality. Again, though, thousands of people had had head injuries, and they weren't serial killers. In all the time he'd worked in the ISU and beyond, he still hadn't figured it out, what turned these people into monsters. He also wasn't the first to crack under the strain of dealing with violent death and mayhem. Mulder jumped when the door swung open and banged against the wall. Scully stalked to the bed. "Would you come downstairs, please?" Oo, she was in a fearsome temper. He recognized the signs, having been on the receiving end more than once. "He's back, and he's having dinner with us." "Crandall, I take it?" "Dinner with us," she repeated, stabbing a finger at him. "You, me, and Mae." "Scully, you'll be fine without me." "I'll kill him." "You won't. You're the very model of restraint." She merely looked at him, not even bothering to raise an eyebrow. Mulder nodded once. "I'll get my shoes on." Manitou, by Dryad 8/13 disclaimer in part one (R) "Don't y'weep, pretty baby (don't y'weep, pretty baby) she's long gone with the red shoes on goin' to need another lovin' baby go to sleep little baby (go to sleep little baby) you and me and the devil makes three don't need no other lovin' baby" O Brother, Where Art Thou?/Didn't Leave Nobody But The Baby (soundtrack) Downstairs, both of them slowed in mutual curiosity as they heard Crandall's voice. Silverware rattled in the background. "Spooky and the Ice Queen, that's what they're called in the Bureau." "That's not a very nice thing to say, Mr. Crandall. Especially to complete strangers? I'm sure the FBI frowns on gossip." "Well, unless you're planning on calling and telling Louis Freeh personally, who's to know?" Mulder glanced at Scully. She was furious. Ice Queen indeed. Her acceptance of his beliefs had made his moniker unimportant, except in the way that it affected her. He didn't know how she felt about her own nickname, however. Crandall wasn't going to last long if he continued to behave in such an unprofessional manner. "That's not the point, Mr. Crandall." "Listen, I'm not the one who came up with their names. Besides, they may be unorthodox, but they've got a good reputation." Well, wasn't that nice to know? Mulder put a hand on Scully's back and they moved forward into the kitchen. Setting unmatching Fiestaware plates on the table, Mae cast a welcoming but irritated look at Mulder. She glowered at the back of Crandall's head when he turned around. Crandall was giving Scully the hairy eyeball. Jerk. "Agent Scully, would you like glass of wine?" Mae asked. "Oh, please." "Agent Mulder?" "I'm fine," he answered, brow wrinkling as he caught Scully's shift from annoyance to amusement. "What?" "You're stealing my lines." "Am not," All he had to do was distract Scully enough, keep her eyebrows off 'kill' and Crandall would most likely escape unscathed, providing he kept his trap shut. A wry twist to his lips, Crandall said, "I hear Diana Fowley was quite an agent. You worked with her for a couple of years, didn't you?" But no, the man was just going to keep jumping into it with both feet. "Yes, I did." "Didn't she and Spender take over Spooky Central for awhile?" Mulder could feel Scully bristling beside him, even though she didn't actually move. "And quite the looker, eh?" What fresh hell was this? What on earth was he supposed to say? Diana was still a sore spot between him and Scully. He didn't know how she felt about it - oh, that was such a lie - he knew, it was simply easier not to think about the damage he'd done. Ironic, that he who often chose to wallow in painful memory shirked it in this instance. "Agent Fowley assisted Agent Mulder, as did Agent Spender," Scully stared at Crandall. "Enough shop talk. These are boiled new potatoes, green beans, and sweet potatoes," Mae pointed to each covered dish as she spoke. "Bread and gravy are coming up, and here's the roast. Help yourselves." Mulder speared a couple of slices of pot roast and a few green beans before passing the dishes on to Scully. He wasn't hungry at all, but there was no way he was leaving her or Mae here with that idiot. Not that Scully needed his protection. Far from it, he was there to hold her back from pulling her weapon on the man. Although the temptation to join her was rapidly increasing with every other sentence he spoke. "So," Crandall said. "Are you married, Agent Scully?" She choked on her wine, shot Mulder screaming eyes as she recovered. "Agent Mulder, did I ever finish telling you about the history of Lincoln?" Mae desperately began. Bless the woman. Lincoln's font of information. "You mentioned something about the Underground Railroad, but I'd rather you told me about Jocelyn Kaspar, if you know anything about him." "Good lord, he's a character. Why - ? No," she held up one hand. "You probably can't tell me anything. Unless, of course, you think I ought to know." Mulder glanced at Scully, made sure she wasn't about to throw her dinner at Crandall. "Go on." "Well," Mae spooned mashed sweet potato onto her plate. "His mother used to be one of the teachers at the school, y'remember, she's the one who told me how Lincoln was named?" He nodded, admired the succulence of the roast and wished he could fully enjoy it. "Delphine, that was her name. She and her husband, Thierry, came down from Quebec City in the 40's. They had a homestead, oh, somewhere around where South Trail is, now," she paused in reflection, smiled. "Delphine was pretty, so glamorous and foreign compared to the other women in the village at that time. She had hair the color of corn silk and a figure to make Mae West jealous. And with that french accent, well, men couldn't keep themselves away from her. She didn't keep her job at the school very long, and then she couldn't find work anywhere else." "Small towns can be bad for that," Mulder murmured. He knew, he had experienced it himself after Samantha's disappearance. Already too smart and too good at sports for his own sake, kids pretended to be his friend only to play cruel and humiliating jokes on him, taking joy from his distress. He had been so lonely then, desperate for any contact besides his grieving, bickering parents. "Now Thierry was known to be a drinker, and rumors abounded that he regularly beat Delphine, too, although I never saw any evidence of that myself." "Actually, you probably did," Crandall said. He looked extremely uncomfortable and wouldn't meet anyone's eyes. "You just didn't recognize it for what it was." Ah. Hindsight could be a terrible thing to bear. Good to know that there was something to Crandall besides poor judgement. Funny, too, as most people who had been abused were usually extremely good at reading other people. He'd bet Crandall used his build and looks to bamboozle others as a means of protection, forgetting how important it was to be able to tell when one was going overboard. Didn't make him any less of an asshole, though. "Anyway," Mae continued after chewing and swallowing a bite of beef. "Pretty soon Delphine was drinking too. Jocelyn was born in, oh, '54, '55? I saw him when he was just a little baby. She'd come into Delmar's right after he was born. So adorable." Mulder cast a quick look at Scully. Wistfulness suffused her gaze. Mae took a deep breath. "We didn't see him again until he was five or six. He had a habit of starting fires in the hay barns. Well, I shouldn't really say that, he was never caught in the act. But, he was always the one to raise the alarm, which seemed awfully convenient to me. Whenever Thierry caught him in town he'd give him a belting, right there on Main Street. My daddy went sugaring with Thierry a few times, said the whole family was meaner than an angry bear and far more dangerous." She paused for a sip of wine and forkful of green beans. "I grew up, went to Mt. Holyoke on a scholarship, came back and went to work at the old sawmill on Meadow Road. It was strictly secretarial then, unlike today. I envy you young women." Scully smiled. "There's good money in being an administrative assistant these days." "Administrative assistant...the mill was where I met my husband, Elliot. He'd come up from Smuggler's Notch to - " Mae shook her head. "Oh, you don't want to hear about him. He was a good man, though. Anyhoo, to make a long story a little shorter, we moved down to Craftsbury, then Queechee, then back to Lincoln. While we were away I kept in touch with Libby MacArthur, she gave me all the dirt in town. Apparently a distant cousin of hers, Daisy Taylor, disappeared one night. Now you have to understand that she was...of loose morals, as we called it back then, so besides her immediate family, no one was too bothered. When Elliot and I moved back about a month later, they still hadn't found her, but Delphine kept coming in to town ranting and raving that Thierry had killed her, and that Jocelyn had helped bury the body." "What did the police do?" asked Scully. "Nothing. Everybody in town just assumed she was drunk and telling stories. It wasn't until she starting saying that Jocelyn had raped her that an investigation began." "Jesus," Crandall muttered, staring at Mae. "You'd be surprised by how often that kind of abuse happens in criminal families," Mulder said. Crandall looked disgusted. "Really?" Mulder nodded, mauled his food around some more to make it look as if he'd actually eaten. "Good lord," Mae shook her head, ate more sweet potato. "The police found no proof. Jocelyn, of course, denied everything, and Thierry mocked Delphine in front of the police as well as anyone else who came within hearing distance. God only knows what happened in that house. Two months later Delphine stumbled into town in the middle of winter, stinking of moonshine, saying she'd been forced to kill Thierry in self defense. It got chalked up to being talk, because they didn't find his body. We all figured he'd gotten lost and someone would find him after the spring thaw. Presuming he wasn't eaten by animals. But we never did." "Delphine eventually let the Sisters of Benevolent Mercy over in North Attlee take Jocelyn in, although I'm sure she didn't take much convincing. She died later that spring when the Kaspar place went up in smoke. I was so busy with my own children that I didn't really pay attention to rumor until Jocelyn came back to town when he turned eighteen. People said he'd set the fire, drinking gin and dancing around the house in the moonlight. Of course that's nonsense, but they'll still tell you the same thing today." "Do you think he did it?" asked Mulder idly. She shrugged. "Anything's possible. I've always liked Jocelyn, myself. You'd never think it to look at him, but he's a bright man. Never went beyond eighth grade, never done anything but odd jobs around town, still lives somewhere out by his parent's place. Suzie Dulac told me she brings him into Waterloo sometimes to pick up packages, so he must have friends somewhere."