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Title: From That Eternal Silence Summary: In suburban New Jersey, a teenage girl seems to commit suicide, but a murder suspect is named. Doggett is called in under strange circumstances, and in the course of the investigation, he must face his own inner demons. Agent Reyes is also heavily involved with the case. Notes: This story takes place between "Alone" and "Essence". Also, for those who are familiar with MeridyM's work, this story takes place a couple weeks after "Intuition" and shortly before "Empathy". It is assumed that S8 covers May-December 2000. Prologue November 24, 2000 She ran up the stairs without a word, ignoring the hum of muted voices echoing from the dining room. If she heard the sound of the front door slapping against the thin wall of the front hallway, she ignored that as well. All that mattered was that she was late, and after waiting months for Eric to ask her out, she was damned if she was going to screw it up even worse than she already had. She was already pulling the tight crop top over her head when she heard the inevitable call of her mother's annoyed voice from the bottom of the stairs. "Simone!" "I'm running late, Mom!" she called out with a huff. "I told Eric I'd meet him at the park by eight!" Simone swore she could feel the disapproval in the air, even from a distance. "What kind of boy makes a date on Thanksgiving, Simone? For God's sake, the entire family is here! Isn't it bad enough that you were working all day?" Simone rolled her eyes, grabbing her heels as she ran into the bathroom, slapping the switch for the lights over the mirror. "I told you, I tried to get the day off, but you know Tad! He's worked at that place for fifteen years, and he's never let the teens off on the holidays." "Well, he better not make you work Christmas," her mother mumbled. Not for the first time, Simone wondered if her parents had designed the house specifically to allow her mother's voice to carry anywhere. "So who's this boy?" Simone ran her fingers through her long brown hair, smirking at her reflection in the mirror. Plugging in the curling iron, she turned towards the doorway. "Eric Decampo, Mom! You know, quarterback, football team, nice butt? Said so yourself last Friday." "Him?" Simone could tell by the tone of her mother's voice what was coming next. "Now I remember..." "Mother!" Her mother's laughter joined her own. "Well, if you insist on going out tonight, can you at least get home earlier than midnight? Your cousin's flying in early tomorrow morning, and you know he's going to want to see you at the airport." Simone sighed, hurriedly trying to do something with her hair. "Damn! I forgot all about that! If you let me take the car, I'll get gas on the way home." And there came the waves of disapproval again, just as she expected! "Simone, you know what happened the last time..." "It's just to the park," Simone rebutted. "Five blocks away!" "I guess it's all right. I'll find some way to explain it to your father. Good thing he's just about out for the night, thanks to eating all that turkey. Speaking of which, are you eating before you go?" "Not wearing this, I'm not," she muttered, running her hand over her slim stomach. Then louder, "I'm already late, Mom! Maybe when I get back. Save some stuffing!" "All right...but at least say hello to the family before you leave!" Simone rolled her eyes again, and then looked at herself in the mirror again. The hair was a bit more curly now, the way she liked it. Not perfect, but it would do. She picked up a pad and swabbed her forehead lightly, looking closely at her eyes in the process. Still the same drab brown, but at least the usual circles underneath were absent for the moment. Looking down, she rummaged through the various shades of lipstick, finally selecting a shade of red that complemented the striking crimson of her top. Applying it liberally, she looked herself over in the mirror, sucking in her stomach and pushing out her chest. "Not bad," she said with a self-indulgent grin, and then rummaged through another bin for the perfect pair of earrings. One hand holding her left ear, she slid the razor blade across her cheek, gouging a harsh line from her forehead down to her neck. With the same absent, calm motion, she repeated the act on the other side of her face, and then looked herself over once again with satisfaction. Dark scarlet streaks rushed down her neck, pooling at the edge of her top before coursing down under the fabric. Looking herself over, the same grin wide on her face, she ripped the blade deeply into her left wrist, slicing hard towards her elbow in a deliberate path along the blue of her vein, clearly marked under her pale skin. Again, the process was repeated with her right arm, more slowly this time as weakness swept over her, and then the blade slipped from her fingers, clattering to the tile floor. Slumping slightly against the counter, her blood spilling onto the formica surface, she stared at her whitening face with a look of satisfaction. Slowly, haltingly bringing her right hand up to the mirror, she began tracing out letters over her reflection. By the time she was done, her legs lost their strength, and she fell to the floor. Even as her consciousness slipped away, the smile never left her lips. Chapter One November 27, 2000 Agent John Doggett stood in the doorway to the basement office, his eyes lingering on the desks, the filing cabinets, the notes still plastered on the walls. There was a hint of amusement on his lips as his gaze fell on the "I Want to Believe" poster hanging in the usual corner, and he considered whether or not he should take it down. The thought fled instantly, though, as he considered that it would be a kind of dishonor to those who had occupied the office before him. The incident with Agent Harrison had resolved itself during a somewhat convenient time of year. The long holiday weekend had given him the opportunity to consider the position that he had placed himself in. There was no doubt that he was completely responsible for his present lack of career opportunities; Mulder might have gotten himself booted out of the Bureau, but Doggett had deliberately defied Deputy Director Kersh more than once, knowing the consequences. Only he had never truly considered the possibility that Agent Scully would not be around to make the decision a little more bearable. He had been aware of the short-term needs of his former partner, given the fact that her pregnancy was now winding down. But the long-term plans had always been in question, and for whatever reason, he had assumed that she would be coming back. It had not even occurred to him that she might be leaving for good, not until the moment her eyes met his before she walked out on leave. And so now he was alone, the only agent remaining on the X-Files. Letting out the deep breath he was not even aware of taking, he slipped his coat over the nearest hook and walked to his desk, noticing the file sitting on his chair, demanding his attention. What would this case bring? More little green men? Ghosts or goblins this time? Or even better, a mysterious discovery of killer turkeys, set on revenge? Scanning the first page, a frown creased his lips. He flipped through the rest of the pages, his eyes lingering on the few color photographs clipped to the back, and then checked the front of the file. Sure enough, there was the usual file designation, with the brand new number stamped prominently on the front. Doggett reviewed the file again, in more detail this time, and then found himself staring at the empty desk across the room. How was he going to run this office on his own, if he couldn't even figure out why his first case was an X-File? "I'm not sure I understand the question, Agent Doggett." Assistant Director Walter Skinner glanced at the contents of the offered file. "Seems straightforward." "Yeah, it does," Doggett replied. "That's the problem. Why is this an X-File?" He took the file back from Skinner, opening it to the first page. "Victim's name is Simone Benoit, age seventeen. 5'10", 130 pounds. Found in her parent's home, upstairs bathroom, shortly after 8 PM, Thanksgiving Day. Razor wounds on the sides of her face and along the insides of each forearm. Cause of death, loss of blood." He looked up from the file. "What's the issue?" "The initial ruling on the scene was a suicide, but that was quickly challenged by the mother," Skinner answered. "Local law enforcement picked up a suspect within an hour, not far from the home...Thomas Gabriel McShane, age twenty- eight. Apparently he has a bit of a history in the area for annoying the local law enforcement." "Pretty fast to call out a suspect," Doggett agreed. "How did they ID this guy?" "Apparently the victim was getting ready for a date with another local boy, Eric Decampo, age seventeen. Decampo found McShane waiting outside the victim's house, loaded with all kinds of wonderful stuff...knives, mostly. Some looked ceremonial, according to the report. Blood was found on one of the more interesting knives. Blood type was the same as the victim, but apparently Decampo and McShane had a bit of a scuffle, and Decampo has the same blood type. They're running DNA tests through their own channels, to make sure the blood was hers." Doggett shook his head. "I still don't see what this has to do with the X-Files, or the Bureau for that matter. The parents of the victim called in the local police, they have a suspect...the details might be a little fuzzy, but nothing that they shouldn't be able to handle. Why would they call us in?" "They didn't," Skinner said seriously. "McShane did, with his one telephone call. He notified the local office that there were possible irregularities with the case, and that someone should investigate with experience dealing with unusual circumstances." Doggett raised an eyebrow. "And he didn't clarify?" "Only that they should pay attention to the photographic evidence. They almost ignored the call, figuring that McShane was just a crank, but after checking the file, they thought maybe Agent Mulder should look it over, just in case. I don't think they bothered to check if he was still in the Bureau." "Why should they? Agent Mulder was only missing for months, was dead and buried, came back to life...why would anyone be interested in what he was up to lately?" Doggett flashed Skinner a knowing smile. "So are we supposed to think aliens killed this girl?" "Not aliens, but maybe something just as odd. Take a look at the photographs again." Doggett nodded as he flipped to the back of the file. The first picture was a wide angle shot, taken from the bathroom doorway. The victim was lying on her back, where her mother had found her, staring into space. Her lips were still twisted into a contented smile, as if the girl had been staring at someone she was dearly devoted to. Blood streaked from the countertop in the upper right hand corner of the picture, down the cabinets, and pooled on the floor around the body. The second picture was a shot of the blood-stained mirror, where someone had used the victim's blood to smear letters on the reflective surface. Doggett had to look closely at the writing, but the words "Human Bacon" were clearly visible among the streaks. The writing began very clearly, and then became more erratic by the end of the second word. The final pictures were close shots of the victim's wounds. Doggett almost dismissed them, until he caught something in one of the shots of the facial wounds. He flipped to the first page, and then checked the coroner's report. "Did the victim wear contact lenses?" Doggett asked, looking up at Skinner. "No," Skinner confirmed. "Every picture prior to the victim's death, every record, confirms that her eyes were brown." Skinner pointed to the file. "Both the pictures taken after death, and the coroner's report, state that the victim's eye color was a very vibrant blue." "So, what, did her eyes suddenly turn blue at the time of death?" Doggett asked with a smirk. "What did the local P.D. have to say?" "They say it doesn't means anything," Skinner replied. "An effect of the flash from the photography, and a mistake by the coroner." "The flash wouldn't effect the color of the iris that much," Doggett countered. "And I've seen coroners get some of the more bizarre details wrong, but never something as simple as eye color." Doggett tapped the picture of the writing in blood. "Did they say what this was supposed to mean?" "They said it was probably some kind of cult reference, something meaningful to the suspect. That area of the country is notorious for cult activity, but not usually in that exact part of the state. This is unusual. Cranford's a town with a very high social standing. Lots of families living a very comfortable life." "You don't say," Doggett said. He tapped the picture again. "This almost sounds like a reference of intent. Seeing the victim as meat, not as another person. So why the reference to 'human'? Seems at odds." Skinner nodded. "There was enough here that Kersh thought it might be a good idea to take a look. He said that even if there was something unusual about this case, this should be something simple for you to get started with. 'starting off on the right foot'...those were his exact words." Doggett scowled. "Something tells me this may not be the simple investigation that I thought it might be." He thought for a moment, and then shook his head. "I don't even know where to begin, other than going up there myself and talking to the suspect. I guess I should expect a little resistance from the local law enforcement?" Skinner sighed. "Sounds like it." He gave Doggett a concerned look. "John, I'm not questioning your abilities, but did you want me to get involved?" "I can't say I miss the point of your question," Doggett said, standing. "But I think it might reflect badly on both of us if you were to get involved. Kersh is already looking over your shoulder for an excuse to get you out of that chair. Besides, if this turns out to be cult-related, then I think I have someone else in mind to help out." "Agent Reyes?" Skinner sighed. "She has the right background, but I think it is going to be hard to convince Kersh to assign her to this case without some kind of definitive proof that some cult or ritualistic overtones were involved." "So I'll check it out first, and call her later if I need to." Doggett said, looking at his watch. "If I can requisition a vehicle, I should be there in a few hours." "I'll tell the local office to hand over all information they might have on hand when you arrive," Skinner added, also standing. As Doggett turned towards the door, Skinner placed a hand on his arm, and spoke softly, as if fearing they might be overheard. "Be careful, Agent Doggett. You know they're not going to give you much room to maneuver." His eyes glanced quickly upward. Doggett nodded slowly, acknowledging the warning, and then left Skinner's office without another word. Cranford, NJ Doggett stood in front of the Cranford Police Department, looking down the road to get a sense of the area. The municipal buildings were all close to the center of town, with the fire and police departments across the street from one another. A small river passed behind the police station, cutting across the town towards the south. In general, the town was divided by the river, with a number of small parks dotting the length of the river. There was a flutter of motion above his head, and when he looked up, he saw a large raven sitting on the roof of the police department, staring at him. The raven hopped a few feet closer, its eyes peering at him curiously, and then it called out, taking to the air. Several other ravens joined the first from a nearby tree. Doggett regarded their motion for a moment, and then turned his attention back to the business at hand. Stepping into the doorway, he saw a large man in uniform standing in the lobby. He noticed the man's name from the identification pinned to his uniform, and he smiled inwardly. Apparently the local office had done a damn good job of advertising his impending arrival. "Agent John Doggett?" the officer said, his expression one of barely restrained hostility. "I'm Officer Davis. I've been asked to assist you in your investigation of the department." "I'd be glad for whatever help you can give me, Officer Davis, but that's not the reason I'm here." He looked around the lobby. "I was told I would be able to speak with Sergeant Charles Fell." "He's busy," Davis replied curtly. "I've been assigned to deal with you." "Well, I've been assigned to check on some details of the Benoit murder, Officer Davis." Doggett took a step towards the officer, not threatening, but establishing clear authority. "The sooner I get to ask my questions, and the sooner I get answers to those questions, the sooner I'm done. It's that simple, Officer Davis. Any reason why that might be a problem for you?" Officer Davis hesitated for a moment, and then shook his head, looking away from Doggett's intense gaze. "No problem. What do you want to start with?" Doggett smiled, resisting the urge to push the officer harder. "Why don't we start with the suspect, and see where we can go from there." Thomas Gabriel McShane sat in the chair across from Doggett with an expression of slight amusement. Doggett was a bit surprised to find that the suspect was in such good spirits, considering that he had been locked up for nearly five days under less than friendly conditions. There were a few choice bruises on the man's face, and Doggett suspected that there were a few other wounds equally fresh under the man's clothing. McShane was average in nearly every respect. The only thing striking about the man were his eyes. They were an odd shade of blue, more of a combination of blue and a deep, expressive green, and when they focused on a person, it felt as though they were reaching directly into a person's mind and soul. It had taken Doggett more than a few moments of watching McShane using the hidden camera to get used to the feeling. "You can see why this guy's trouble," Davis had muttered, pointing to the image. "Some kind of freak. Loves to mess with your head. Looks at you like he can tell what you're thinking." "I was told that you've dealt with him before, over the years," Doggett had said, turning to the officer. "What kind of trouble?" Davis had shrugged. "Came into town about ten years ago, a little less. There were some teens that were involved in some kind of satanic ritual bullshit, you know, grabbing people's pets and sacrificing them in the woods, stuff like that. One girl almost got killed, he was involved." Davis had shaken his head. "Never could pin anything on him. Since then, every time something weird happens around here, especially in the woods? He's there." He had gestured at McShane's image. "This is the first time we've been this close to making something stick. Who knows? Maybe you'll do some good around here, if you get him to admit to killing that girl." Doggett had chosen to ignore the tone of the last statement, and had entered the room armed with more questions than he might otherwise have considered. He still found the man's eyes to be unnerving. "My name is Agent John Doggett, Mr. McShane," he said, looking McShane directly in the eye, forcing himself not to get distracted. "I'm here to listen to whatever it is you wanted to say, regarding the investigation into the murder of Simone Benoit." "Thank you for coming. And call me Thomas." McShane said, his voice proving to be as distracting as his eyes. There was almost a musical quality to the way he shaped his words, as if there was something more he might communicate or suggest. Doggett considered how easily such a voice could be used to persuade or control. "You said something about possible irregularities?" Doggett prompted. McShane nodded, gesturing slightly at his own face. "I would think that there are already some obvious irregularities." "Beyond that," Doggett acknowledged. "If you've seen the pictures from the investigation, then you know that something odd happened at the moment of Simone's death. A physical change, a kind of transformation. Have you ever seen that before, Agent Doggett?" Doggett cleared his throat, and shook his head. "No, I can't say I have. But that's not something that I needed you to tell me." "No, it's not," McShane admitted. "But it's all connected. The message, the color of her eyes, the smile on her face. How many times have you seen someone murdered in that fashion, without even the slightest indication of pain or discomfort? And then consider how many times you've seen them look contented, even pleased. Would someone smile if they were being murdered?" "Are you telling me that she committed suicide, Thomas?" Doggett asked. He had the feeling that there was already something making itself apparent, some unknown factor showing itself through its very absence. "Simone Benoit was not a suicide," McShane said with a sigh. "There was no suffering in her life, beyond the normal stress of trying to date the star of the football team. No, Agent Doggett, I'm afraid that it is not so simple as that." "Then explain it to me," Doggett pressed. "If she didn't kill herself, and she wasn't murdered, then why is she sitting in the morgue right now?" McShane shook his head, gazing into Doggett's eyes as if taking his measure. "If I were to simply tell you, it would do no good. I can see that as readily as you can see that I am not the cause of that girl's death." As soon as McShane's words crashed over him, he knew that it was true. McShane had not been responsible. But he did know who was responsible, and that meant that there was much more to this case than met the eye. "So why am I here, Thomas, if you have no intention of telling me anything? You can't just claim that you're innocent and expect that to be the end of it. You have to give me something to work with." McShane seemed to consider Doggett's words, and then nodded. "Clark. New Jersey. May 1982. Look for the connections." He glanced in the direction of the hidden camera. "Afterward, we'll talk. If they let us." Doggett did his best not to react to the fact that McShane knew the exact location of the hidden camera, but it rattled him nonetheless. Speaking with McShane, just being in the same room with him, unsettled him in a fundamental way. It was not something that he was able to easily describe. It was almost as if something were looking and speaking with him through McShane. Or was it the opposite? Doggett nodded his agreement, and then quietly left the room. Officer Davis met him at the door, and Doggett took him by the arm roughly. He knew that it would make things more difficult in the long run, but he wanted to make himself very clear. "Between now and the time I come back, Officer Davis, I suggest you make sure there are no more 'irregularities'. Understood?" Hatred blazed behind his eyes, but Davis nodded. Chapter Two November 28, 2000 Doggett woke early the next morning, grabbing a copy of the Newark Star-Ledger from the lobby of his hotel on the way from the nearest coffee machine. A call to the local library had confirmed that there was an extensive microfiche database of the paper, but the building would not be open for some time. As far as Doggett was concerned, this was simply a chance to review what little he did know, and get a feel for the locale. The region was the typical picture of suburbia, a seemingly endless sea of houses and strip malls packed between the labyrinth of parkway and turnpike. There was a sense that one might never know the town they were visiting without the aid of the constant signs. It was all the same, as though some infection had spread over the land, recreating the world in its bland and stifling image. Certainly, there were differences lying underneath. One could see the strata of culture and affluence plainly in the widely variant headlines devoted to each town in the newspaper. Areas closer to New York City comprised the bulk of the violations of the street crime variety, being the least wealthy regions. The story changed in a slow but steady march to the west, until one began to read more about insurance claims and real estate transactions. This part of the state, Doggett recalled from the case file, had the odd distinction of a reputation for ritualistic and cult-related crime, mixed with a liberal part in the drug trade corridor running up the East Coast. An article deep within the State section of the paper revealed ongoing problems related to racial profiling and random drug searches on state highways. It was the occurrence of cult-related activity that marked this particular region as out of the ordinary. Most of the widely published reports pointed to Warren County as the main hotbed of ritualistic crime, but judging by the information in the FBI database, this one section of Union County stuck out like a sore thumb. And that did not fit the expected pattern, which would have roughly placed that type of crime in the more remote and less- populated areas. It was hard to think that anything so extensive could hide in a place with so much constant exposure. Not for the first time, Doggett wondered if Monica might have some insights, but he placed that notion in the back of his head. There was very little hard evidence related to the case, after all, and until there was something specific to investigate, there was little justification for placing that phone call. The shrill ring of his cell phone pulled him from his reverie. "Doggett," he said calmly, noting from the information flashing on the tiny screen that the cell was from Skinner. "I got your message from last night," Skinner said with an extended sigh. "I was hoping that the information regarding the local law enforcement would turn out to be the usual compliant from a guilty suspect, but I guess we can't have everything." "I hear you," Doggett replied with a smile. "But between that the business with McShane, I get the feeling that there is something more to their lack of people skills." "Anything specific?" Skinner asked. "Nothing I can put my finger on," Doggett admitted. "I don't know. It might just be me. McShane is a character, that's for sure. I can easily see him involved with some kind of cult. He's got the personality for it. I'm going to hit the library first thing this morning and check his information out. Not much more I can do at this point." "Let me know what you find," Skinner said, and Doggett could tell that there was something more to it than curiosity, just by the sound of Skinner's voice. "Inquiring minds want to know?" Doggett said evenly. "Something like that," Skinner confirmed. "Remember what we discussed in our meeting yesterday. It's a good idea to try and keep this as clean as possible." Skinner left it at that, and as soon as the connection was cut, Doggett checked his watch. He had time for a quick bite to eat before the library opened. Pulling out the sports section from the paper, and sighing at its apparent lack of coverage, he left his hotel room and started his day. "This collection is the Ledger, May 1982," the librarian noted helpfully. "And I thought you might also want to see something from the early June 1982 collection." "Thanks," Doggett said, noting that the boxes were clearly marked, but unable to resist the librarian's dated charm. What was it about old ladies with purple hair and small-town libraries? "Just let me know when you're finished, dear, or if you need anything else." The old woman nodded politely, and then closed the door to the darkened room behind her. Moments later, Doggett was fighting the usual sense of motion sickness that accompanied the rapid flash of page after page of black against bright, almost blinding white. Without a sense of when the events McShane mentioned might have occurred, there was little more that Doggett could do, other than scan everything from the beginning of the month for something that might connect to the current situation. He almost missed the first mention of something peculiar. Scanning back a couple pages, he read the headline again, to be sure that he had read it right. A familiar sense of dread crept up his spine, and he forced himself not to fall into the spiral of deafening memory. CHILD MISSING FROM CLARK HOUSING DEVELOPMENT, AGE 9 He scanned the content of the article, looking for any information that might be relevant. On May 3, 1982, a young boy had been reported missing by a middle-income family in a planned community development called Willow Farm Estates, close to the Clark-Cranford border. Beyond that, there was very little information. Scanning ahead, he found the inevitable headline the very next day. MISSING CHILD, AGE 9, FOUND MURDERED NEAR Home Doggett read the description of the scene with a dry throat. The child had been found in a ditch near a sewer connection for rainwater runoff, behind the building that the parents had resided. The body had been partially mutilated, a cross and a crown cut deeply into the chest, the face largely removed with the exception of the area surrounding the eyes. The eyes were left perfectly intact. On a hunch, he flipped back to the May 3rd article, scanning the description of the boy, quickly noting that the boy had blue eyes. But would that have made a difference? After taking a few notes, he resumed his search through the archives. It was apparent from the comment by the librarian that there had been more to the matter than the recovery of the child's body. Soon enough, another headline followed, marked May 10, 1982: SECOND MURDERED CHILD RECOVERED IN WILLOW FARM EStateS The details of the second incident were plainly similar to the first, with the most obvious distinction being the more immediate recovery of the body. Based on the circumstances discovered during the previous incident, the local police had found the body within an hour of the discovery that the young girl was missing from her bed. Reading the article carefully, Doggett noted that the mutilation was the same, as was the age, but this time, there was an observation regarding the color of the girl's eyes. They were noted to have apparently changed from brown to blue, seemingly overnight. Doggett knew instantly that this was part of what McShane had wanted him to discover, but it soon became obvious that it was only the beginning. Immediately after the second child had been murdered, the other children in the area were more closely monitored. But within days, a third child was found dead, his parents unable to explain how he could have gotten out of the house. Again, the child was nine years old, and again, there was the mutilation. Three more children were killed over the next three weeks, all under the same conditions. But what was peculiar, beyond the manner in which they died, was the observation that all of the children were not just the same age, but had been born the same month: February 1973. And in three of the six cases, the color of the eyes had changed without explanation. Doggett searched the articles for some sense of how large the development might be, and was shocked to find that it was relatively small, perhaps three dozen houses spread evenly over a main road and several cul-de-sacs. It was hard to imagine that there would be that many families with children born in the same exact month, all unable to prevent their children from being murdered within days of each other. Just as he was about to wonder how long the serial killing had continued, an article dated May 31, 1982 provided an answer: SERIAL KILLER CAUGHT AND ARRRESTED DURING SEVENTH ATTACK According to the article, the killer had been the manager of the planned community. Doggett saw the connection immediately. The killings had to have been planned long in advance, with specific families being approved for the community based on the age of their children. It was unlikely that the families would ever realize what was happening over the years. How many families would worry over the fact that their children would have several children the same age to interact with? And so the development manager would have the master key to every building, intimate knowledge of the layout of the area, and a clear picture of which families had what he was looking for. It was so plainly obvious that Doggett began to wonder how the man had managed to elude suspicion for weeks. It took a few moments to determine that at the time he was captured, he had proudly admitted his guilt, claiming that the children had been willing sacrifices to bring about the return of the Lord of Lords. The man's house had been filled with pictures of the children and words scrawled on the office walls: Ikhnaton, Itsacon, and references to "children of the west". The articles claimed ignorance regarding the meaning. But it seemed impossible to imagine that an obvious suspect, with evidence plainly lain out in his office and home, would have escaped notice for weeks. Shaking his head, Doggett scanned back to the earlier articles once again, looking for some rationale that might explain the lapse in the investigation. What he found left him cold. In every instance, after each and every case, the manager had been questioned and consulted. In fact, the manager had met with police several times in relation to the layout of the community, providing maps and information regarding the families. There was no hint of evidence linking the manager to the crimes, not until after his capture. Scanning past the man's capture, he read several articles regarding the investigation. Against all reason, no mention was made of the manager's ability to elude capture or notice. Very little was said regarding the reason for the killings, and it seemed as though there was little public outcry for an explanation. More to the point, even the parents of the murdered children seemed to have little interest in why their children had been targeted. It was a puzzle that defied reason. Six children murdered by an apparent religious fanatic, somehow removed from their homes without notice, despite the clear and present danger facing them. A police department that was unable to note the obvious guilt of a man aiding them in the investigation, with no interest in determining the meaning behind the ritualistic overtones. Parents of murdered children with an equal level of apathy regarding the deaths of their own children. With no clear expectation of what he might find, after all the conflicting and illogical information that he had already amassed, Doggett wondered if the parents of the seventh child might have acted differently, or reacted with more demand than the others. Finding the article regarding the family, Doggett passed his tired eyes over a paragraph, a mention of how the unidentified family wanted to put it all behind them. Doggett tapped his pen against his notebook in thought, and then searched for any mention of the intended victim's name or the family's identity. If the murders in May 1982 were related to the current situation, then it made sense that he would have to follow-up on the unresolved issues himself. He reasoned that the family of the child that survived would be more willing to revisit those memories. It took several moments, but he finally found a reference to the intended victim buried in one of the final articles regarding the killings. As soon as his eyes fell on the name, he went completely still. He had found one final, damning connection. The intended victim had been Thomas Gabriel McShane. "You're sure?" Doggett resisted the urge to nod, that odd habit of people who found themselves on cell phones too many hours out of the day. "Positive. I managed to get copies of the real estate records for the development, which is still active, believe it or not. The McShane family bought a home at the address mentioned in the article in 1975, and stayed at that address until June 1982." There was a slight rustle as Skinner ran a hand over his mouth. "This is beginning to get a bit bigger than the unexplained death of one teenage girl. Any record of where the McShanes went after that?" "It's difficult to follow their progress for the next few years," Doggett explained as he left the library, pausing to hold the door for a couple young students. "In and out of state, never staying in one location for long. But that's when I started finding the first indications that little Thomas McShane had begun paying less and less attention to the rules." "He has a juvenile record?" "Accessed several times over the past ten years," Doggett confirmed. "No one can say by whom, but three guesses." "Our friends at the Cranford Police Department?" Skinner guessed with a sigh. "That's what I was thinking." Doggett turned around the corner of the building towards the parking lot. "The juvenile record is fairly similar to his adult record, but there's a bit of a difference." "What kind of difference?" "During the years that the McShanes were living out of state, and even outside of the local area, there are a ton of instances of Thomas being picked up for hitchhiking, trespassing, and truancy. It's like this kid wanted to be someplace very, very badly. He was even picked up once for attempted grand larceny, but they bargained that down because he was eleven at the time." "Eleven years old and trying to steal a car? Where was he living?" "Rural Tennessee," Doggett answered with a laugh. "Outside Knoxville. And according to the clerk, who sounded just this side of a hundred, it was a riding mower, which might also have had something to do with the reduced charges." He chuckled, and then scanned the lot for his car. It was exactly where he remembered it should be. So why was something suddenly bothering him? "John?" Skinner's voice seemed slightly distant. "Yeah, I'm here." He shook his head, continued towards the car. "Anyway, as you can guess, this began to really put a strain on the family, and eventually the father ran off with some pretty young thing in Portsmouth, Virginia. The mother and Thomas moved back to where her family lived." Skinner caught the connection instantly. "Cranford." "That's right. And then, like that, things change. A lot more trespassing and truancy incidents, and the beginning of a long list of assault and battery charges leading right up until the night of the incident. The best part is, all of those trespassing charges? All for the local area, all at night, and almost always on properties close to the woods." "Which matches with what the local department said about him," Skinner said, putting the pieces together. "But if he wasn't involved in the death of this girl, what is he doing running around in the middle of the night loaded for bear?" There was a pause. "John? John?" Doggett did not hear him. Instead, he was focused on the very large bird sitting on the top of his rental car, staring at him intently. The brilliant jade of the raven's eye seemed to rush right through him, reminding him distinctly of his conversation with McShane. Even more, it seemed as though there was some kind of message he was supposed to be getting, some feeling of importance. All of this came in the split second that he saw the creature spreading its wings wide, calling to its unseen companions. "Agent Doggett!" "Yeah, yeah, I'm here, I'm all right," Doggett breathed. Skinner's voice broke the silent connection, bringing him back to some semblance of reality. "Just some bird sitting on my car, if you can believe it." Doggett forced himself to recall what Skinner had been saying. "I have no idea how McShane fits into this picture. I have to think that his experience as a child has something to do with it. Certainly he thinks so. But there are so many unanswered questions about those killings...enough question, anyway, that it's a bit difficult to see what it has to do with the present." Doggett sighed. "I'm thinking of calling Agent Reyes." "Already?" Skinner replied with obvious disappointment. "You know how that might look..." "I think that there are more than enough instances of cult or ritual overtones to warrant her involvement," Doggett responded. "Besides, if you think that I should wait just to satisfy Kersh, then I think we might want to make a statement of our own. If I'm going to be the only agent on the X-Files, then I am going to need a little discretion for calling in experts on cases like this." "I just want to make sure it's something we can justify," Skinner said, almost attempting to placate him. "Right," Doggett said with a tolerant sigh. "Tell you what, I'll call her as soon as I know I need her, and no sooner." "Agreed," Skinner said with much greater satisfaction. "Good work, John. Let me know what McShane has to say." Doggett waited for the line to clear, and then stared at his phone, considering if he should make the call sooner than later. Shaking his head, he was about to slide the phone back into his pocket when a resounded screech emerged from the raven. He looked up to find the bird staring him down again, as if somehow daring him. Almost unconsciously, he punched the number for his speed dial, and noted with some relief that the raven launched into the sky as soon as the familiar click reached through the line. "This is Agent John Doggett," he said at the usual query. "I'd like to speak to Agent Monica Reyes." Chapter Three November 28, 2000 Agent Monica Reyes rubbed her eyes, and then stared at the notebook filled with Doggett's notes once again, looking for some further sense of the connection between all of the events he had described. But just as before, there was little more that she could discern from it all, besides a very clear indication that Thomas Gabriel McShane was not a murderer. She tapped the notes regarding the 1982 murders. "The thing that I get out of this...it's as though the parents of those kids were completely unaware of the danger. Usually, in a case like this, the parents are massively overprotective about the safety of their children. In this case, the opposite appears to be true. And that makes me very uncomfortable." "I was thinking the same thing," Doggett affirmed, taking a seat across from her. They were sitting at the small coffee table in his hotel room, going over the basics before the anticipated second interview with McShane in the morning. Any hope that Monica might provide an instant moment of revelation had been dashed when her forehead furrowed into the worry lines that suggested she was more than a little perplexed. "This thing with the eyes," she said with a shake of her head. "Very weird. I've never seen anything like that before. It's almost as though there is exposure to something, like a disease. But I'm assuming that there's nothing in the autopsy reports?" "Nothing in the pathology, no," Doggett confirmed. "Then something is still missing from this picture," Monica said. But she quickly shook her head. "No, I take that back. It's here somewhere, in the way all of this fits together." "The common element is McShane," Doggett said, suddenly feeling foolish. Did he really need Monica there to confirm everything he had determined on his own? "No, not quite," Monica said, and now she had Doggett's complete attention. "If there is one thing that this tells me, it's that McShane is as much a piece of the puzzle as everything else you have here. He might see where he fits, but he is not in control here. He is reacting...to what, I don't know, but he is definitely reacting to something." Doggett thought about it, and then nodded. "I think I see what you mean. You're thinking of his juvenile record?" "Yep," she said with a grin. "Think about it. He's involved in this mess in '82, and then out of nowhere, he's got to be somewhere, and he's got it bad enough that he's willing to drive a lawn tractor to get there. And by the way his record takes that left turn when he moved back to Cranford with his mother, I'd be willing to bet that Cranford's the place he was trying to get to." "So whatever it is he was looking for, it's in Cranford," Doggett repeated. "That explains the trespassing, I guess. Think he's still looking for this...whatever?" "The fact that he's still here, and still running up a record of minor offenses, tends to suggest it," Monica replied. She studied the notes, obviously did not find something she was looking for. "What happened to the manager of the development, the one who killed the other six children?" "Killed himself after capture," Doggett remarked. "Nothing out of the ordinary. At least according to the paper. Hung himself." "So he wasn't trying to get back to find the killer," she said with a sigh. She shook her head. "We might want to follow up on that information, if we run out of places to look. But I still get the gut feeling...McShane wanted to come back for something, John. I just know it. And more than that, I think he might have found it." "Why do you say that?" Doggett smirked. "Not one of those 'vibration' things again..." Monica eyed him with amusement. "Hey, why else did you call me here, anyway? But it's not just that. McShane doesn't seem to be desperate. Even given the way he's been mistreated, from what you say, he's taking it all very calmly." "Sure," Doggett said with a grin. "He's not the murderer." "It's not that," Monica insisted. "He was outside of the girl's house, armed. He knew something was going to happen that night. He had to know. Why else would he be there? And that means that he found whatever he was looking for, and whatever that thing is, it's connected to the reason why that girl is dead." "Connected," Doggett said, and then realized what that meant. "But not the cause?" Monica shook her head, and looked him dead in the eye, her expression grave. "If McShane did not kill that girl, and had no intention of killing that girl...then something killed her. Something that could be stopped." "Why do you say that?" Doggett pressed, sure that they were getting somewhere. "I'd have to check McShane's arsenal to be sure," Monica cautioned. "But just from what you've told me, it seems pretty clear. If he knew something was going to happen that night, and he was armed...he was trying to stop that girl from dying." November 29, 2000 Monica slid her fingers over the hilt of the dagger, taking a moment to admire the workmanship. The markings were almost exactly what she had been expecting to see, based on her impressions of the man who had been wielding them. Never mind that she had never actually met the man; she had listened to the tone of John's voice, the way he described him, the notes that he had taken. All of it pointed to a man with a mission,true, but not a mission of violence. It was something that practically screamed into her mind: this man is not what he appears. She had to admit, she was counting on John's reactions more than she might usually allow herself. Part of that was the history that they shared. She, perhaps more than anyone, understood his reluctance to look inward, to rely on the unspoken patterns and weavings that determined the course of a person's life. It was the acknowledgment of those connections, allowing oneself to let them guide and inform, that gave her the insights that she had become notorious for. It worked rather well in her field of expertise, but the applications were endless. John denied those feelings, however, and so the very fact that he mentioned that McShane had affected him, even in the slightest sense, gave her reason to pause. Lifting yet another small but intricately carved blade to her eyes, letting her gaze run over the markings with practiced ease, she nodded to herself with a smile. "This is what I was expecting." "And what is that?" Officer Davis asked from the doorway. While the officer had quickly consented to her presence, it was obvious that John had applied a great deal of personal willpower to make it happen. "Agent Reyes is an expert in ritualistic crime," John reminded Davis with a bit more gruffness than usual. Monica forced herself not to smile over her shoulder at him, since it would aggravate the local officer more. "These markings are clearly from various cultures, spanning from Celtic influences in Ireland and Scotland to Asian and even South American sigils and glyphs. The variety alone would make it difficult for a novice in the field to come to any logical conclusion, and might even lead them to ignore the one thing that links them all together." She tapped the runes on the blade she was inspecting. "These are marks of protection. One might even call them wardings of some type." She turned towards Davis. "The point is, no matter how many of these weapons he might have been carrying, one cannot and should not ignore the context that the type of weapon invokes. If I were to hazard an opinion, just based on what I see here, I would say that McShane was definitely carrying these weapons as a means of defense against something. The markings bear that out." "Are you trying to tell me that McShane carried these weapons for good reasons, Agent Reyes?" Davis asked with obvious contempt. "Might I remind you that a girl is dead?" "And I have yet to hear an explanation as to how he managed to kill Ms. Benoit without actually entering the house," Monica replied, her tone even. "According to your own report, Officer Davis, the suspect was apprehended after a scuffle with a local boy. Is that not the case?" "There was more than enough time between the time of death and the time we picked McShane up for him to have been involved in both acts," Davis countered. "That's not the point." "Of course," Monica consented, not willing to continue an argument that would likely have no end. "Let's get back to the weapons question,then. It's not a matter of good or bad, so much, as a matter of intent. Weapons are weapons, and are generally used for the purpose of inflicting wounds. But just as certain martial arts techniques, while certainly meant to inflict bodily harm, can also be meant to be used for defense only, weapons can have a use that is specific to a type of conflict or intent. In this case, Mr. McShane went to a lot of trouble to put together a collection of weapons that speak directly to an intent to dispel or eliminate a certain kind of spiritual or even physical threat." This caught John's attention. "What kind of threat? I mean, to be honest, I look at this arsenal, and all I see is a guy with a Dungeons and Dragons fantasy." "And to the untrained eye, that is exactly what it might look like," Monica repeated, glancing at Davis as she said it. "But these weapons are unique, and there are collectors who might never know that these weapons even existed. McShane would have had to have gone to a lot of trouble to find these weapons, for a specific purpose." She pointed to another weapon, one adorned with Incan carvings. "That blade should not even be found outside of the region it was discovered. The native peoples who watch over relics like those would never let a casual collector get their hands on one of them." Monica looked John in the eye, emphasizing the import of her words. "Only someone regarded as worthy of its possession would be allowed to touch it, let alone take it away on their person." John leaned forward, clearly understanding what she was trying to say. "Then what makes McShane so special, that he would be carrying something like that?" Monica shrugged, placing the blade in her hand back on the evidence tray. "I think it's time I met Mr. McShane, and maybe we'll find out." Monica found herself at a loss of words, something that was seldom the case. It was as if the entire room was resonating with the personal power of the man sitting across the table from her, as if John was not even in the room with them. Just as John had noted, it was as though the man's eyes were looking right through her, noting every nuance of thought and expectation, and finding it infinitely amusing. "Did you tell them what you thought of my collection?" McShane asked, just before she was about to introduce herself. Not waiting for a response, he smiled and continued. "That is why you are here, isn't it? To try and figure me out?" She thought about what to say, failed to find words that might restore her sense of control. "All right. I'm here to figure you out, as you say." She gestured towards the door. "It's a nice collection, if a little unorthodox. Care to tell me how you managed to get some of those items?" McShane turned to John, as if playing at a confidential comment. "Notice how the question goes directly to the point of the matter, rather than what I might have expected from someone like Davis or Fell. They always ask me why I was carrying them." He looked back at her. "You already know. The only question now is, what is the exact nature of this 'protection', am I right?" Monica shrugged. "If you say so." McShane nodded slowly, as if assessing the response. "Noncommittal. But that's all right." He leaned back, inspected the tips of his fingers. "They are gifts, mostly. From our familiar frame of reference, yes, they are weapons. In another frame of reference, they are something very different. You might call them devices. Tools. You understand?" "I think so," she replied, glancing at John to confirm that he was listening carefully. It would not be like him to lapse during an interrogation, but there was a certain sense that this conversation was taking place within an undefined zone of privacy. "Just as a tool can be used as a weapon, like a hammer or scissors, these weapons can be used as tools." "That's a loose understanding, but yes," McShane replied. "But in this case, the weapons are fashioned for the utility in mind. To use one of those items as merely a knife, like as to cut one's meat...it would amount to sacrilege." "What does this have to do with that little errand you sent me on?" John asked suddenly, breaking his silence. "It has everything to do with it," McShane replied, as calmly as ever. He turned to look John in the eye, and Monica had to resist the urge to reengage his attention. "Not that I can see," John snapped back, his patience wearing thin. "You keep talking, Thomas, but I'm not hearing anything that's making much sense. What do these weapons of yours have to do with those murders you told me to investigate? Other than the fact that you were the victim who survived?" "You would not understand if I explained it to you," McShane said, his tone almost saddened. He turned back to Monica, gestured towards her with his chin. "You called her for a reason. This is the world she lives in, the kind of path that she has learned to walk." He turned back to John. "You operate differently. You cannot simply see the path and trust in it. You have to walk every step, feel each and every stone under your heel, before you trust in the destination at its end. For you, it is as much about the journey." He shrugged. "There is a wisdom in this. I need you to understand, and so, I provide you with a map and the perfect guide." It took her a moment to realize what it was McShane had said. He had known that John would call her in on the case! She began reviewing their conversation, going over the words again, seeking meaning that might have escaped her the first time around. "Fine, Thomas," John was saying as he knocked on the door, preparing to leave. "Play this kind of game if you want. But if you intend to help us discover what happened here, then I'd skip the riddles and start making more sense." McShane nodded, but now he was looking at Monica, catching her attention. "Go to Unami Park in Cranford. Walk into the deepest part of the woods there. There are several trails. You will see how these events connect." "Is that all?" John asked, his lack of patience far from soothed. "No," McShane said. "You found the words, the ones left by the one who wanted to kill me?" "We did," Monica answered. "Good," McShane replied with a nod. "Then you should..." The door opened suddenly, and Davis was staring at McShane, as if daring the man to say more. McShane smiled slightly, breathing deeply as a faint sense of amusement seemed to dance in the green captivation of his eyes. Monica stood, wishing that they had not been interrupted at that moment. As she walked towards the door, John's hand on her shoulder, he heard McShane call after her softly. "Agent Reyes," he whispered. "Genesis 4:7." And then the door closed behind them. "Did you catch that?" she asked, refusing the urge to look over her shoulder as they stepped out into the light of day. "Which part?" John asked, his expression slightly troubled. "The biblical reference, or the fact that McShane was about to say more when Davis came in to shut him up?" "Take your pick," Monica said with a sigh. "You weren't kidding when you said the local boys didn't like him. I think maybe they know more than they're letting on." "I was getting that feeling before, but I definitely agree with that now," John said, searching his suit jacket for the keys to the rental. "I'm not sure if Sergeant Fell is the one who assigned Davis to keep us out of the loop, but whoever it was, that was a mistake. Davis is too obvious. And given the kind of case this is turning into, I don't like the idea that the police are involved." Monica ran a hand through her hair, looking at the sky. It was steadily darkening, and the wind was beginning to pick up. Her eyes caught motion from the direction of the police station, and dismissed it when she saw it was only a raven hopping along the edge of the eave of the building. "It's not uncommon. Small towns have their secrets. But it is odd for something like this to be happening in a suburb with this much activity and outside contact." She was several strides closer to the car when she realized that John was no longer next to her. Turning, she saw him staring at the raven, his expression worried. "What is it?" she asked, watching him closely. "I'm not one for birds, but last time I checked, ravens aren't native to this state," he said, nodding towards the bird, which was now looking directly at them, the fading light reflecting in its emerald eye. "Would you believe that this is the third time in as many days that I've seen one?" Monica could hear something in the tone of his voice, something he wasn't telling her. "Is there a reason you're bringing this up now? Do you think it means something?" He looked at her, the thoughtful expression now replaced with the usual skepticism. "It's a bird, Monica." "I know," she said, keeping it light. It did mean something to him, on some level. That much, she was certain. "Maybe it likes your eyes. Thinks they're pretty." John smiled slightly, rolling those baby blues, and tossed her the keys. "Your turn. If McShane is going to have us running all over town, then it's a good idea for both of us to get used to the roads. Just in case we have to split up." Monica snatched them out of the air, pressing the button to unlock the doors as her fingers wrapped around them. "Do you know where this Unami Park is?" "Caught it on the wall map on the way out," John said as he slid into the passenger seat. "Not too far." He looked up at the distant sound of thunder. "We should hurry." The rolling thunder was closer by the time they walked across the field and entered the woods. At John's suggestion, after they had found the park, they drove around it to get a sense of the size of the park. To their surprise, it was relatively small, and most of it was open space. Only the portion furthest from the entrance could be considered "woods", and that part was surrounded by residential areas, mostly the backs of houses. From the street, in most cases, one could look through the trees and see the faint outline of the houses on the other side. "We're supposed to find something in here?" John muttered, checking his flashlight. They might need it if the trees and darkened cloud cover made it difficult to see. "If McShane mentioned this place, then I have the feeling that it carries some significance." She scanned the trees themselves as they walked along the path that had been worn into the underbrush. The trail was wide enough that one could easily tell that it was well used. "I can see those houses on the other side pretty clearly," John called over his shoulder, as he took the lead. "Is it normal for cult activity to take place in an area like this?" "It's usually more carefully hidden, true," Monica replied. She fumbled in her coat pocket for a moment, and then cursed herself under her breath. When was she going to stop doing that, every time she felt like she was walking into a tense situation? "Unless the people who own those houses don't notice," John said with a grin. But then his expression changed, growing more serious. "Like the parents of those kids in '82." Monica had to admit that it was a possibility. "There are a lot of instances where people are doing odd things with no explanation. I'd almost think that there was some of mind control taking place." John stopped and turned towards her, his eyes speaking for him. "I'm serious," she said, looking at him with exasperation. "Maybe the killer used hypnosis, planting the suggestions over the years in order to produce the desired effect when the time was right." "So why would McShane, at the age of nine, be able to resist?" John looked at the ground, and then pointed in a different direction. "There's another path leading this way." His head tilted oddly to one side. "Does it look like there are more trees over there than there should be?" Monica smiled, thinking of what an odd comment that was, until she looked in the same direction and noticed what he was talking about. Where it had once been possible to see the houses on the other side of the wood, looking in the direction the new path indicated, it was no longer the case. "I think this is the way we're supposed to go," John said, looking to her to suggest an alternative. Still rattled by the sudden shift around them, she nodded. "Seems like it." As they began to walk, she noticed that there was a subtle difference in the air, something palpable but defying identification. "This is more than just the way the trees happened to grow or how they arranged,"she muttered to herself. "I think there's some sort of clearing ahead...what the hell is this?" Passing between two large trees, she noticed that John was standing in a small clearing. Suddenly suspicious, she looked to one side, and then the other. "John... the trees..." John was standing next to a small but deep depression in the center of the clearing, filled with debris sitting over several layers of what appeared to be sheets of plastic. At the sound of her voice, he looked up, and shock crossed his face. "How did...Monica, we drove around this park how many times? I'm positive we would have noticed if there was an area this large in the center of the woods where you couldn't see through to the other side." "And yet, here we are," Monica said, stating the obvious but understanding that it had to be said, that John had to hear her confirm the situation they had found themselves in. "That question you asked me before? About McShane? Who says he wasn't affected?" John went back to inspecting the pile of debris, kneeling down to get a closer look at the sheets of plastic. "What do you mean?" The threatening rain began to fall, dripping past the bare branches overhead. "Even you have to admit that his record suggests that he was under some kind of influence, trying to get back here without explanation, no matter where he happened to live at the time." She started looking carefully at the trees, inspecting their surfaces for anything that might suggest what this place was used for. "What if he was able to resist the initial commands, but there was something else that was suggested to him, bringing him back?" "That's all well and good," John replied, "but if we are going to go that far, then we might as well ask ourselves why the killer would have hung himself if his intended victim was supposed to come back for some future contingency plan." Looking around, he grabbed a long branch from one side, pushing against a larger branch holding down the plastic. Monica thought she noticed something in one of the larger trees surrounding the clearing, and walked towards it, carefully stepping past the pit of debris. "Is it possible that the killer planted the suggestion of continuing the ritual, maybe repeating it at some future time?" She stepped up to the tree, looking at it carefully. "That's awfully far fetched," John scoffed, predictably. "And if we go by that, it opens anyone who ever came in contact with the killer as a suspect now. All those parents, the police, the press...all the people who would have suddenly lost interest in pursuing the case based on what would be this post-hypnotic suggestion." He paused, noticing her silence. "Find something?" "Maybe," Monica said, tracing something carved into the trunk of the tree. "Looks like someone carved a crown into this tree trunk. It's not recent, though. I'd say, maybe ten years." Troubled, she began scanning the rest of the trees surrounding the clearing. Usually when there were symbols, there were several of them, establishing a pattern or defining an area. "Ten years?" John resumed his attempts to look under the plastic. "I remember Davis saying something about McShane being involved in something ten years ago. Something about some local teens being involved in something, and a girl almost getting killed. Davis seemed to think McShane was behind it, but nothing could be proven." "Did you find out who the girl was?" Monica asked absently, trying to remember if it was in the notes while also looking carefully at the trees around her. "No. But if we find something here, and it might be from the same time frame, then we might want to see if we can find her now." She heard his intake of breath, caught a scent of decay on the air. She turned to find John covering his nose with one forearm, holding up the edge of one sheet of plastic with the branch in his other hand. "Smells like something died in there," Monica said, and then considered her statement more carefully. "Safe bet it's animal remains. That's standard for ritual sites." "Good to hear," John said, letting the plastic fall back to the ground. "But I think I'll check anyway." He noticed that the rain was falling harder now, and saw that it was beginning to tickle into the pit. "Looks like I'll have to work fast." He started grabbing debris from the top of the pile, pushing it off when possible. "Find any more evidence carved into the trees?" "Yeah, over here. This is one is just as old." She looked down, and realized that she was standing at the spot where they had entered the clearing. Looking at the tree on the other side of the path leading away from the open space, she realized that there was a crown symbol carved into both trees to each side of the path. Quickly making her way back to the tree where she noticed the first symbol, she noticed that there was a path next to that tree as well, carefully hidden. And just as with the other path, there was a tree on the opposite side of the second path that had been carved. Careful not to get in John's way, she stepped close to the pit and looked at where the two paths stood in alignment with one another. It was about a 120 degree angle between the two points of entry. Nodding to herself, she turned and looked directly behind her, finding a third path exactly where she now expected one to be. "I think I see how this place is arranged," she said, as John stopped to listen to her. "Three points, forming a triangle." "Not a pentagram?" She gave him a smirk. "Three paths leading into the space at each point of the triangle, with this pit in the exact center of the space defined by the markings on the trees. If they were conducting animal sacrifices here, then this would definitely be some sort of meeting place for rituals." She shook her head. "Only I'm not sure how this would connect with the rituals from the murders in Clark. None of those words or references are showing up here." "And yet, McShane said we would find something here that would help make this all fit together," John said, as he pushed the last large piece of debris out of the pit. The sheets of plastic were now floating in a shallow pool of darkened, soiled water. Using the branch, John started poking at the space underneath, frowning as he began getting a sense of what might be hidden. "Monica. I think I found something more than just a few animal sacrifices." She turned, and saw that he was hitting something large and heavy under the plastic. Something gripped her then, a powerful sense of what this place was, and what it was meant to represent. "Oh...oh, no..." She heard John expel a heavy breath, and followed his gaze. Pressing up against the layers of plastic, barely visible, was the pale and bloated shape of a human hand. Chapter Four November 29, 2000 Agent Doggett leaned across the wooden table, his eyes boring into McShane even as they blazed with anger. "I want to know right here, right now, what kind of game you think you're playing." McShane shook his head, his appearance calm, but there was a slight lack of composure that seemed to betray itself when he spoke. "No games. I had no idea that you would find a body in the park. I was only pointing you to one of their gathering places." "Whose gathering places? The ones who killed Simone Benoit? The ones who killed Timothy Mathis? Or are we talking about the same people here?" Doggett slid back into his seat, his eyes never straying from his target. "Does this have something to do with the incident that Officer Davis mentioned, the one that happened ten years ago?" McShane sighed, then shrugged. "These places are used when they are deemed convenient, or when there is some goal to be achieved. Was that place used about ten years ago, and was I involved in an incident related to that? Yes, that is true. Was I aware that this place was still in use? Of course. That's why I sent you there." He leaned forward slightly. "But I had no idea that there was another body." He looked towards the hidden camera. "Maybe Officer Davis would like to explain why he never mentioned that anyone was reported missing." "We checked that," Monica interjected. "The parents said he was supposed to be staying with a friend for a few days. They had no idea that he was missing." Doggett knew that McShane had heard her comment, but the man turned to him instead. "Of course not. Doesn't that sound at all familiar?" Doggett opened his mouth to respond, but he was suddenly struck by the fact that McShane was completely correct. If there was any question that there were similar methods being employed, and very similar circumstances coming to pass, McShane's comment made it very clear. "The autopsy on Timothy Mathis reports that he was the same age as the previous victim. Eyes were reported green on every piece of identifying documentation, but the coroner swears that his eyes were blue. Time of death is hard to determine due to exposure, but estimates say he died two days ago. Which places his death not long after death of Simone Benoit. It could have been a matter of hours, before or after." "That's very possible," McShane commented, as if thinking aloud. He cursed under his breath. "Of course." His attention turned back to Doggett. "Officer Davis took a statement from Eric Decampo that night. And from her parents. Where did they say that Eric was supposed to be taking Simone when they were going out?" "Unami Park," Doggett muttered. He shook his head. "You're telling me that Decampo had something to do with this? Why not come right out and say that before?" Before McShane could answer, he pressed on, recognizing what this information was revealing. "That's why you were fighting with Decampo that night, isn't it?" "You knew something was going to happen to Simone Benoit," Monica added. "You knew Decampo was involved." McShane sighed, nodded his head slightly. "Everything pointed to him being involved. I had good reason to suspect that he might try to do something to Simone, but I was under the impression that it was going to happen in the park. I positioned myself between her parent's house and the park, intending to stop him from taking her there. Only she never left the house, and I didn't realize what had happened until it was too late." "So what are you saying?" Doggett bit out, as if trying to force McShane to talk through sheer force of will. "That you were arrested outside of the house because you knew something was going to happen, but you didn't realize that it was going to happen inside the house?" "You were outside waiting when you were discovered by Decampo and his friends," Monica said from over Doggett's shoulder, her voice wavering slightly. "They were coming from the park, weren't they?" "They knew," McShane said, and now his voice sounded defeated. "They knew I was going to try to stop them. And so they laid a trap for me. They killed Timothy Mathis in the park, knowing that I would be waiting for them to get Simone. But they had already gotten to her." Doggett stared at McShane for a moment, as if reviewing what he had just heard, and then shook his head. "This is all very nice, Thomas, but there's a problem. Something I don't think your story can explain. If they had already gotten to Simone before they went to the park, and they caught up with you on the way from the park to the Benoit residence, then we have a problem. I can buy the idea that they took a different way to the park than they took coming back, but Simone's mother was talking to her from the bottom of the stairs from the moment she walked in the door. They spoke to each other. There were no screams, no struggle, nothing. So how would Decampo or his friends kill Simone Benoit without anyone seeing them come in, or leave?" McShane listened to Doggett intently, and then sighed. "You don't understand. They wouldn't have needed to be there to kill her." "That makes no damn sense, and you know it," Doggett retorted. "You're still playing games." "No," McShane said, and then he looked towards Monica. "Don't you see it yet? Don't you understand?" "I'm trying to," Monica said, matter-of-factly. "But you're going to have to do a little more than make obscure references and innuendoes. If Decampo or his friends somehow killed Simone Benoit in the way she died without actually being there to commit the crime, then how did it happen?" McShane shook his head. "I can't just say it and hope that you'll understand or believe. If they planned out the deaths of Simone Benoit and Timothy Mathis, that means that it really has started again. And unlike last time, they knew I was going to try to stop it. They planned ahead, Agent Doggett," he said with emphasis, looking him in the eye. "They knew I was anticipating their actions, and I played right into their hands." Doggett stood, shaking his head. "If you're not going to tell us more, then we have no choice but to leave you in the hands of local law enforcement. They already gave their version of what happened that night. They said that you killed Simone Benoit, then went to the park and killed Timothy Mathis, after which Decampo caught up with you." "And you believe that?" McShane asked with an incredulous smirk. "It's no more and no less believable than your story," Doggett answered. "Both versions of the story are equally questionable. Only you called us in here to prove that you were being wrongfully accused. And that means you have the burden of proof. They get to carry their side into the courtroom." McShane sat back in his chair, shaking his head. All of the composure and calm he had once radiated was now completely absent. "If I tell you what is happening, everything that I know, your instincts will be to walk out that door and leave me to whatever fate these people choose. But now that I know that they have already killed two people, possibly more...it looks as though I am going to have to do something I truly did not want to do." He was still for a moment, as if listening to something faint and indistinct, and then nodded to himself. "As soon as possible, you should speak with Kirsten Walden and her brother Craig. Tell them that I asked them to explain to you what happened ten years ago. I think that once you hear what they have to say, you will truly understand what is happening here." "Why them?" Monica asked, just before Doggett could respond. "Who are they to you?" "Craig Walden, as Officer Davis will likely tell you, is just another troublemaker like me," McShane replied. "His sister Kirsten was in danger. She was almost killed. We stopped it." "Is that all?" Doggett asked, sensing McShane was holding something back. "No," McShane admitted. "She's also my lover. And the mother of my child." "Are you planning on calling Director Skinner?" Monica asked as they left the station. "Because I'd personally love to be a fly on the wall for that conversation." "You find this situation funny, Agent Reyes?" Doggett asked, his present lack of patience slipping out from under his control. "Because this is turning into a nightmare, in case you hadn't noticed." "Back to the 'Agent Reyes' thing, are we?" Monica said, shaking her head. "I know what you're up against...Agent Doggett...and I'm trying to help you to the best of my ability. But as much as you may not want to admit it, McShane has you pegged. I think there is something very strange happening in this town, something a bit more substantial and dangerous than some kids running around playing at Satanic worship while getting drunk in the woods. Two teens are dead, and the way they died is not what I'd call typical. Even for a case involving ritual or cult activity." "Then what the hell are we dealing with?" Doggett said, as they walked up to the car. Monica leaned against the door, her hand fumbling in her jacket pocket absently. "If there is a cult, John, then it has to have a foothold in the local authority system. That much is obvious, if we are to believe what McShane is telling us." "And why would we do that?" Doggett pressed. "You said it yourself, he's not a murderer," Monica replied easily. "Even if we are to believe Davis, and we have every reason not to at this point...follow your instincts. There are two versions of the truth that we have heard. Both appear to be impossible. But like the old saying goes, once you eliminate the other possibilities, the impossible must be the truth. Which is, I might add, exactly how you operate." She smiled. "At least, when you're not being pig-headed." Doggett glared at her. "Pig-headed?" Monica's smile widened. "That's right. And McShane has said as much. OK, he said it a bit nicer, but even he knew that you have to see the evidence for yourself before you will even consider a theory that challenges your assumptions. And even then, it's a luck of the draw." Doggett continued to glare at her for a moment, and then sighed. "I guess our next move, then, is to see what kind of information McShane's friends might enlighten us with." Monica was quiet for a moment, biting her lower lip slightly. Under her gaze, he suddenly felt very uncomfortable. A tiny voice in the back of his head warned him that they were going to be treading on familiar ground, and he was definitely not in the mood. "I just want to let you know, John," she started, choosing her words carefully. "This case is starting to give me the same kind of feeling that I had when we were dealing with that case about a month ago. It's nothing I can put my finger on, but I just wanted to tell you now before this goes any further. There's something out there, in the air. It's like a physical pressure. And something in the back of my head keeps telling me that this is something like what we've seen before." She paused. "This might be a situation where you can't afford to ignore what you know you know..." "And what would that be?" Doggett snapped. "Because I'd love to hear this story, believe me. It would fit right in with everything else I've had to listen to lately." "All right, then. Why did you call me in on this case, if something wasn't telling you that you needed me here?" Doggett hooked a thumb over his shoulder. "I'd say there's more than enough evidence of cults and rituals, Agent Reyes, and you are the expert in that field, aren't you?" "I really hate it when you do that," she muttered, and then she shook her head. "I don't think that's it, and I can tell you're not convinced yourself. In terms of simple evidence and information gathering, we have yet to encounter anything that you couldn't have handled on your own. I mean, really, you could have sent me pictures of the weapons and renderings of the symbols we found. So why else would you have asked me here, unless there was some element to all of this that you were unwilling to face alone?" Doggett waved her out of his way, pulling the keys out of his pocket. "We have a job to do, Agent Reyes, and none of this fantasyland nonsense is getting us any closer to getting it done. I think it might be a good idea if we split up once we find the Waldens. It might save time." Monica hesitated, and then slid away from the door. "Is this your way of avoiding me until you think I've forgotten this conversation?" Doggett resisted the urge to snap out an unfortunate reply, and let out a sigh. "No, Agent Reyes, I'm taking into account that if two people are now dead, we might want to find out as much as possible before someone else ends up dead. We can compare notes later." Monica waved her hands in compliant frustration. "Fine. Good idea. Do you actually know where we're supposed to find them?" Doggett waited until she was in the passenger seat. "We'll try Kirsten Walden's current residence first." "And that would be where?" Monica said. "An apartment nearby on Centennial Avenue. Just over the river." Monica looked at him oddly. "They live in this town? When the police are just looking for a reason to put McShane behind bars?" "Just another little mystery for us to solve, Agent Reyes." Doggett couldn't resist adding, "Let me know if you get any feelings about that, hmm?" 4:51 PM Kirsten Walden Residence Centennial Avenue met North Avenue just where the river ran, within sight of the police station. A major road for the local area, with its proximity to the town's railroad station, it was lined with the cars of commuters taking the train or bus into New York City. Given the time of day, and the location of Walden's apartment, Doggett found himself looking for a parking space on one of the side streets. As they rounded the corner off South Avenue, scanning the street behind the apartments, Monica pointed to a large building. "Masonic Lodge," she muttered. "They ought to have a parking lot." She looked oddly at the building. "That might explain it." "Explain what?" Doggett asked, as he pulled into the parking lot, the pitch of the ramp making him nervous about bottoming out. "Why they live where they live," Monica replied. Doggett took a deep breath. "And how does that fit together? Please tell me this has something substantial related to it?" Monica smiled without amusement. "Some of the inscriptions and glyphs on the weapons that McShane carried have origins that coincide with some of the more ritualistic aspects of the Masons. If he felt that those symbols provided some kind of protection, then he might have chosen this location, so close to the lodge, for similar reasons." She looked back out the window. "Makes sense," he replied, his tone slightly apologetic. "Uh-huh," Monica grumbled, and he felt like an idiot for unloading on her earlier. What she had said was something that he had no desire to explore, or even acknowledge. That way led to a personal abyss that he had been circling since the day he had first heard those words that he would never forget, when his world shattered into a million pieces. Pieces that even after so many years had failed to come back together in any semblance of their former form. Having been staring into that abyss every night of his life, why would he willingly plunge headlong into it? But Monica had none of those fears, none of those reasons to remain focused on just what could be seen and heard, touched and felt. And that had been a part of why he had called her. As much as he might never allow himself to walk that same road, he knew that it was something he needed, and something she was willing to place at his disposal. He was working on how to apologize when she pointed to something outside the window. "Get a load of this." He followed the direction of her gaze, and then saw what she was referring to. "Are those ravens?" "Looks like," Monica said, her expression guarded. "What?" he asked. "What's the matter?" "That's the back of the apartment, right?" she asked, gesturing towards the yard that the birds had gathered in. "Do you think that Davis or someone else at the police department called ahead? Told them we were coming?" "They might have, but I doubt it," Doggett replied. "Why?" "Because someone's waiting for us at the back door," Monica said. "How the..." Doggett parked the car, sat still for a moment as he looked at the figure standing behind the door. "Even if they had called her, how would she have known that we were coming now, or parking here?" Monica eyed him, and he glared back. "Not a word." "I didn't say anything," she said with a slight smile, opening the door. "Why don't we go talk to the woman who knew we were coming without anybody telling her, but for perfectly logical reasons, I'm sure?" Doggett smirked, stepping out of the car. Glancing at the ravens collected in the yard, he noticed that they were all facing their direction, watching them intently. He looked over his shoulder, checking to see if they might have been reacting to something else. But there was nothing there, and as Monica stepped from the parking lot into the yard, a couple of the birds hopped a couple feet back, their eyes still watching her every move. Doggett caught up with her, forcing himself not to look at anything but the figure at the door. "You notice how they're watching us?" he murmured. "That I did," she replied, her tone casual. But he noted the tremor in her voice, and he wondered if she suspected something in their behavior. As they approached the back of the apartment, the door opened and a young woman stepped out, a reserved smile on her face. Much like McShane, she was remarkably average in her appearance. Her hair was perhaps a shade lighter than a completely average brown, and it framed her face perfectly. The color of her skin was slightly olive, suggesting a trace of Eastern European descent, and while she was hardly what would be considered thin, she was also not what would be considered plump. Instead, there was a healthy quality to the way she carried herself, as though all of the worries that might otherwise have worn her down were nothing. But there was something not quite right about her, and it took a moment for Doggett to recognize what it was. Looking briefly at her eyes, he noticed that they were oddly dark in comparison to what he might otherwise have suspected. They were certainly brown, but instead of specks of lighter shades of brown, there was nothing but black. Eyes, he thought to himself. Why does it always come back to the eyes? "I've been expecting you," the woman said, and Doggett was struck by the musical quality of her voice. Again, there was that similarity to McShane. "Oh, did someone call ahead?" Monica asked casually. "You could say that a little birdie told me," the woman said with a slight smile. Seeing the lack of amusement in his eyes, the woman turned to him. "My brother is inside, Agent Doggett. He's been anxious to speak with you." She looked over her shoulder. "He's playing with Rhiannon." "Your daughter?" Monica asked, as she stepped inside. "Yes," Kirsten said, turning towards Doggett. "Mine and Thomas'. But you knew that." "Your brother Craig was expecting me?" he asked, doing his best to ignore the various references to the apparently unconventional means by which she had been informed of their impending arrival. "Actually, I think he was expecting you since the day you arrived," she replied, leading him out of the kitchen into the living room. "Sooner or later, he knew Thomas would want him to explain how they met, and how they know each other...what they've done." There was a slight catch in her voice at the last, but she covered it with a smile. "Why don't I introduce you?" Stepping into the room, he noticed that Monica was talking with a young man, no more than twenty-five years old. He was strikingly thin, and yet carried an impression of strength beyond what his frame would suggest. His skin held a slightly anemic pallor, as though he were ill. The combination of his sturdy black leather jacket and worn jeans gave the impression of someone very dangerous, but Doggett suspected that it was the subtle hints that he was carrying weapons that produced that effect. Once again, it was the eyes that caught his attention. Unlike his sister, Craig Walden's brown eyes were scattered with striking specks of green. "Agent Doggett," he said, and he caught the instant resemblance in voices. It apparently ran in the family. "Good to finally meet you." "Hi, howyadoin'?" he heard by his knee, and looked down to see identical eyes staring up at him, accompanied by a disarming smile. He knelt down, returning the little girl's smile. "I'm fine. How are you?" The little girl giggled, running over to Kirsten and pretending to a sudden shyness, batting her eyes at him from behind her mother's legs. He looked up at Kirsten, and saw that quick and easy joy that parents always seemed to have in their children's ways. He felt the familiar squeezing of his heart, and pushed it away. "This is Rhiannon," Kirsten, her tone of voice acknowledging that it was a somewhat obvious statement. "How old?" Doggett said, reaching out to stroke the little girl's hair, resulting in another round of giggles. "Just over two," Kirsten replied, looking him in the eye. "Kids?" His smile faded ever so slightly. How many times had he heard that question, without even the slightest reaction? And yet there was something about the way she said it, adding a weight that he never would have suspected. "No," he breathed, and it was as if he was feeling the pain again, fresh and blinding. "Not anymore." Kirsten nodded, and turned to Monica, who was watching them with an expression that was one shade below fear. "I suppose I know why Rhiannon didn't sleep well last night now. She's just about ready for bedtime already, can you believe it? But it will allow us to talk without prying eyes and ears. Well, hers, anyway." It was an odd comment to make, but Monica simply nodded, subdued by whatever she was reacting to. "That would be fine," she said, looking at Doggett with that look of disquiet in her eyes. "John and I are going to take a walk," Craig said to Kirsten as he stood. He looked down at Rhiannon, and the little girl grinned. "See you later, kiddo." "Byebye," Rhiannon said, giving a yawn as she waved at her uncle. "Tonight should be a nice night," Craig said as he turned to Doggett. "I think we might want to get some fresh air." Doggett looked to Monica, wanting to be sure that she was willing to be left alone with Kirsten at the apartment. Monica nodded, flashing him an uneasy smile. She would do what had to do. "Yeah, sounds great," he finally said, following Craig towards the back door. Whatever it was McShane thought they might find out, it had better be good. Because dealing with his family was even more unnerving than dealing with him. As soon as the sound of the back door closing reached the living room, Kirsten scooped up Rhiannon and began walking up the stairs. "I'll be right back. She may not go right to sleep, but better she's in her room. You know?" Like everything that Kirsten said, there seemed to be some deeper meaning to her statement, as though the child's room was endowed with some extra measure of comfort. But Monica quickly corrected herself. Not comfort. Protection. While Kirsten was upstairs, Monica took a moment to look around the room. The space was cluttered with the inevitable piles of toys, cardboard books, and assorted signs of the chaos of raising a child. Sitting in one corner was a small desk with a computer, which happened to be running silently with the screen saver engaged. On a small shelve nailed to the wall by the front door, bills and other assorted mail sat awaiting a trip to the post office. Stepping towards the kitchen, Monica noticed that there were a couple bookshelves leaning against the far wall. Scanning the titles, she found the collection to be remarkably varied. There were books on religion, history, biblical interpretation, computer programming, astrophysics, quantum mechanics, all intermixed with a liberal collection of science fiction and romance novels. She glanced at one novel sitting on the shelf as though it had been placed just out of reach of curious hands. It was a book by Charles de Lint. Sliding a worn copy of the Bible from one of the top shelves, she took a moment to recall the reference that McShane had made during their first conversation. She read the passage carefully. It was part of a warning by God to Cain, after his sacrifice had failed to please his creator. "If you do well, will it not be lifted up? If you don't do well, sin crouches at the door. Its desire is for you, but you are to rule over it." Monica shook her head, closing the book and replacing it on the shelf. If the quote was supposed to mean something to her, then McShane had missed his mark for once. "The romance novels are mine," Kirsten said from by the stairs. "Everything else belongs to Thomas. You know what he says? That all of those things are just different versions of the same story. That it's all connected. You know what I mean?" "Specifically? No." Monica turned to face this unsettling woman. "But I think that I might appreciate something of the concept." "Yes," Kirsten replied, and gestured towards a chair. "Why don't we begin? There is a lot we should talk about." "I'm not even sure what questions I should ask," Monica admitted, taking the offered seat. "Thomas gave us very little clue as to what you two might have to say." "Oh, I know what it is he wanted me to tell you," Kirsten said matter-of-factly. "It's not just about my time with him, of course. Things run a bit deeper than that." She smiled, looking into Monica's eyes. "But then, you've already figured that out." "You seem to be a lot more perceptive than a person would otherwise guess," Monica said, trying to shrug off the fear that was creeping across her shoulders. Kirsten shrugged. "If there is one thing Thomas has taught me, and my brother, it is to watch and observe, and see the things that people are really saying or thinking. Most of the time, people react without realizing it. They may think their expressions don't change, but they do. Body language, the way the eyes move." She laughed. "And yes, there is more to it than that. Other ways of communicating." "Are we talking about telepathy?" Monica said, deciding that the direct approach might be the best way to go. "Are we?" Kirsten countered. "What is telepathy? What is communication? I think you might find that communication comes down to access of information. The only difference between what we consider to be normal communication and abnormal communication is the means." Monica blinked. "I have no idea what you are trying to say." Kirsten sighed, and then shrugged. "I think it might be more clear once I explain what happened to me." Monica smiled, more than happy to turn the conversation to something a bit more concrete. "What happened to you when Thomas saved your life?" Kirsten shook her head. "Before that. You see, long before I met Thomas, someone decided that I had potential." She said the word like a curse. "And all that potential was, to them, was a signal that someday, I would have to die." "I hope it wasn't too unnerving in there," Craig said offhand as they walked down one of the side streets. "Kirsten has a way of trying to get people to react, to expose what they are thinking or feeling. And she has a tendency not to worry too much about whether or not people want those reactions to come out." Doggett looked over his shoulder, noticing that some of the ravens from the yard had started to fly into the trees behind them, steadily moving along their path. "I bet she's real fun at parties." "Well, they're not the type for parties," Craig said with a laugh. He saw the direction of Doggett's worried gaze. "They're not going to attack us, you know. They're just keeping an eye on us." Doggett wasn't sure that he liked having his gut suspicions so baldly expressed. "Neat trick. I get the impression that they've been keeping an eye on me since I got here." "They have," Craig said with a wink. "Not something you are used to hearing or thinking, is it? You're more the straight- shooting kind." "So I'm told," Doggett replied. "So you're telling me that these birds...what? They're trained?" "Not exactly," Craig said, leading them around a corner. "How much do you know about Native lore, the general beliefs of the American Indian tribes?" Doggett shrugged. "Not much. Why?" "Thomas began studying the subject about three years ago. In the lore of many tribes, there are certain roles that the various animals in nature embody. For instance, the fox is the embodiment of the trickster. Owls are the familiars for spirits, how they interact and move around us. It all evolves out of a basic belief that there is an underlying intelligence in nature, something more than just instinct. Animals have their ways of interacting with the bigger picture, and if you know how to read the signs, you can begin to understand the connections yourself." Doggett smiled, shaking his head. "Sounds like science fiction to me." "It does, doesn't it?" Craig said, sharing the smile. "I admit, I was a bit skeptical myself. Not about the idea of spirits and all of that...what my sister went through, what I saw...well. That part I knew was real. But the idea that there was some underlying rationale to it all? That part I couldn't quite accept." Doggett sighed. "OK. For the moment, let's take this Indian lore business for granted. How do the ravens fit in?" "In the lore, ravens keep watch over the places where the barrier between our world and the Otherworld becomes thinned, making it easier for anyone on either side to cross between the worlds. In most of the cases, it's some spirit or entity trying to cross into our world, or trying to use people here to grant it more power there." He saw Doggett's expression, and laughed. "Oh, I know, it sounds a bit far-fetched, but just keep in mind that we are talking about the lore of a people that is coming to us through filters. Most of the actual knowledge is hidden away from the view of outsiders. We get the stuff that is considered to be corrupted or just plain wrong." "So why are you telling me this?" Doggett asked, getting impatient. "Because even though that's not the way things work, it's actually not too far off." Craig stopped walking for a second, leaning against a wooden fence. "You ever have a dog?" "Sure." "Ever get the feeling that your dog was reacting to something long before you were aware of it? Or how about those stories about dogs that go nuts, right before an earthquake?" Doggett nodded. "Yeah, I've heard the stories." "Animals have an intelligence all their own, Agent Doggett. It's not like ours, but they are connected into nature just as much as we are. And just like when we get that feeling that something is wrong, or those flashes of dj vu, it's a matter of seeing that connection and recognizing it for what it is." "OK," Doggett agreed. "What does that have to do with all that spirit business? And how does that have anything to do with those kids getting killed?" Craig resumed walking. "If you can accept that there is a connection between all things in nature, then the real question becomes, what is the nature of that connection? What binds everything with everything else?" "The Force?" Doggett answered with a grin. Craig laughed. "Well, OK. Good one. But remember that Lucas based the Force on the varied mythologies and lore of a number of cultures around the world. Real Joe Campbell- type stuff. So it's not a mistake that it sounds familiar." He stopped again as they approached a park bench. The river that cut through the town was several yards away, past the wooden fence. Gesturing for Doggett to join him on the bench, he continued. "Science tells us that there is a basic set of laws that govern everything. Physics describes the way that everything interacts with everything else. Recent advances in cosmology and particle physics, for instance, tell us that there are more dimensions than just the ones we know: length, width, depth, and time. "The question is, what are these other dimensions? And if we are living in a world with higher dimensions, more than what we can easily express, then one might wonder how things work in these dimensions that we know are there, but cannot perceive." "This is getting a bit beyond what I remember from high school," Doggett confessed. "Should I be expecting a quiz when this is over?" Craig grinned. It was his way, Doggett realized, of keeping things light and cordial, even under these unusual circumstances. "Only the most important kind. Understand, this is not a matter of theory. Science is a means of describing nature, not defining it. Reality will always be something beyond points on a graph or equations on a page." Doggett sighed. "All right. So there are these other dimensions described in physics. Are we getting any closer to something useful?" There was that grin again. "When you really get into it, it all comes down to quantum mechanics. And the thing about quantum mechanics is, when you start looking at the way things act and react, it comes down to a bunch of things called quantum states. It's kind of like a list of all the different properties of a particle...energy, momentum, vibration. But the list of possible quantum states is infinite. "Everything in nature, hell, everything in the universe, is made up of particles. And particles are really just energy. Energy that can be transferred from one thing to another, one particle to another particle. You, this bench, the fence, the water...all made of the same exact stuff. The only thing that makes it different is the way the quantum states of the particles come together, which makes it possible to form different atoms, molecules, and ultimately, different materials and things. "Here's the part that really applies to the current situation," Craig said, adjusting his sitting position. "If two particles are created in the same process, in terms of the laws of physics that I mentioned before, then they will share at least one quantum state. This is called entanglement. It really just means that the particles are connected in a way that makes it as if they are the exact same particle. You can take those two particles and put them as far apart as you want...if you change the quantum state in one particle, it instantly changes in the other particle that shares the same state." "So what?" Doggett asked, getting impatient. "This is a nice science lesson, Craig, but come on? Are you just wasting my time so Kirsten can tell Monica some fish story?" "Not at all. The reason that matters, Agent Doggett, is that there is this little speed limit called the speed of light. It says that nothing is supposed to move faster than that. Nothing. So how is it that in experiment after experiment, if you change the quantum state in one particle, it changes instantly in the other, no matter how far apart they are. It's not just fast, it's instantaneous. Do you see the difference?" Doggett thought for a moment, and then nodded. "If the second particle is reacting to the change, how does it know that the change happened, if that news can only travel at the speed of light? Am I getting that straight?" "That's the problem in a nutshell," Craig agreed. "And so the prevailing theory is, that exchange of information is happening in one of those higher dimensions I mentioned before. And since we have no knowledge of the laws that govern those dimensions, the speed of light does not apply." Craig held up a hand when Doggett tried to interrupt. "Now, as to why I'm even telling you this. You see, what someone noticed when doing over the results of these experiments is that if there is an infinite number of quantum states, as many as there are particles in the entire universe and then some...then that means that every single particle is entangled with all the rest. That's how it's all connected. It's all one big tapestry, and we are all a part of it. Everything, everyone." Doggett sat still for a moment, considering the information to the best of his ability. This kind of thinking was not his field of expertise, but he could see that it made a kind of sense. There was some kind of connection between all things, apparently. But that was a far cry from saying that there was a connection that meant anything in the everyday world. He said as much. Craig nodded. "I agree. Just knowing that there is some kind of connection doesn't say much. But once you accept that, there are implications that start popping up. Everything is connected, John, everything that you are, everything I am, everything. And that includes whatever part of us is conscious and aware. Our minds, our souls if you will...they are a part of this connection as well." "Which means what?" Doggett pressed. "That our minds and souls are all connected? Is that what I'm supposed to be getting out of this?" Craig nodded. "But since our senses are a part of this world, we don't catch on to that fact. Most of us, anyway. Some of us feel it, though, at a gut level." Doggett stood. "This is all well and good, but what does this have to do with these murders?" "Ultimately, Agent Doggett, if you believe what I have told you, then you can see that our intelligence is part of this larger tapestry, something that's not rooted in our physical bodies. You see, that's what I've been trying to explain to you. Sometimes, something intelligent figures out how to go beyond the physical, whether through force of will or something else. "That is what you are facing." "I was about ten at the time," Kirsten said, looking into Monica's eyes as if to deliver the memories directly to her brain. "We had heard about the murders in Clark about a year before, but like everyone else, we thought everything was safe when nothing happened after the killer was caught. We never questioned the fact that the killer committed suicide. "It was quiet when the police chief in Clark was hired to take over in Cranford. To be honest, there was no reason that anyone my age should have known it at the time. I didn't. I was just one of the neighborhood kids, playing with her friends...trusting the people in charge to be honest and safe." "What neighborhood?" Monica asked quietly. "The same one Simone Benoit's family lives in. In fact, the same road, just a little farther down. My mother still lives there." She shrugged. "I doubt she even understands what's happening. We haven't had a real conversation in years." Sighing, she continued. "One day, a friend of my father's, a policeman, told me that all of the kids in the neighborhood were having a party at one of the local houses. It was in the basement, because it was supposed to be a scary party. Like ghost stories, he said. Chief Fremont was going to be there to tell the scariest story. "When I got there, I saw most of my friends...Sara, Kevin, Mike, Tom Decampo. A few others." She turned towards the open floor of the living room. "We went down the stairs from behind the house. It was a one-story ranch house, but that was no way to get into the basement from inside. There were no lights, nothing but candles arranged in a circle around the open floor. Inside the circle, in red, was a perfect triangle. At each point, there was a small figurine. It was made of hematite, if you can believe it... that shiny black that your eyes just sort of slide off of. The figurine had two blue sapphires for eyes, and on each head was a golden crown. It was scary, but like so many things when you're that young, it was too interesting to run away from. "There were lots of adults there, parents of some of the others...not my parents, but people I had grown up trusting and believing in. They were sitting just outside of the circle, just far enough that when they asked us...the children...to sit just outside of the circle, we could fit. Chief Fremont sat at the very center, and after some of the parents told some stories...they were pretty stupid when I think about it, actually...after that, he started speaking. "It was like he was reaching into our heads, into our souls... his voice was like the beating of our hearts. He started off speaking normally, so we could hear him clearly. He told us about a time when the people of the world had grown wicked and content in being evil, how they couldn't be trusted. How they lied to each other, to their kids, and hurt each other. But then there would come a time when all of those people would pay, because someone would come to bring back everything that was good. All the bad people would go away, forever, and a new world of happiness and joy would emerge. "But before that time, he told us...and now his voice got just a little softer...special people would come and help prepare for his coming. Special children would be born that would have special gifts, the ones that would have the power of this son of God, the ones that could help him get home faster. And then he started telling us that we were very lucky to live in the place that we lived in, because when we had been born, they had seen that we were the ones that could make it happen. "He went on and on, saying it over and over, telling us that we were the special ones, the ones with the power. We just had to feel it, let it rush into us, forget the lies that said that we were just regular kids. And the entire time, he just kept speaking more and more softly. And so I found myself moving closer and closer, just so I could hear him tell me how special I was. "If you had asked me before that day what color Fremont's eyes were, I couldn't have told you. But as he was talking, it was like he was speaking only to me. And I could see that his eyes were blue, almost shining like the eyes of the figurines, and they were looking right through me, seeing that power within. And as his voice became a whisper, and his eyes made it impossible for me to not listen or look away...that's when I first heard it. "It was like something sliding around in the back of my head at first, like an echo of Fremont's voice. But soon it started overpowering the whisper that I was hearing in my ears. It was telling me to feel the power, to embrace it. I'm not sure when it happened, but soon I wasn't hearing Fremont anymore, but this other voice in the back of my mind, chanting over and over again. But Fremont's lips were still moving, so I kept getting closer to hear if he was saying what the voice was saying. "By the time he looked away, and I realized that he was no longer speaking, I looked around and saw that all of us were sitting in the circle, surrounding him. I looked at the others, trying to ignore the voice that was still whispering in my thoughts, and I noticed that something was different. No matter how it had been before, now I noticed that all of their eyes were the same blue as Fremont's had been. "And I knew, in that moment, that my eyes were exactly the same." Doggett felt the chill in the air as night began to fall, the bite of the late autumn air. So much of what Craig had told him was spinning and fracturing in his memory, the details already slipping away. He would have to be very careful when he went over all of this with Monica later, to make sure he was accurately describing what he had been told. "All right. You're telling me that whatever it is that's killing these people...it's not some person or a group of people. It's some kind of spirit or something?" "Not exactly," Craig said, standing and indicating that Doggett should follow. Once Doggett was standing, he continued. "It's goes back to what I was saying about the Native lore, the idea of something moving from one world into ours. If intelligence is something that actually resides in some higher dimension, then it has to have a way of acting within our physical world. For us, well, it's our bodies. But what if your body has died, or you never had one in the first place?" Doggett eyed him warily. "So this is some kind of possession? This spirit istaking over the bodies of people without their knowledge?" "The entity in question, the one that has caused the trouble in each case...Clark in 1982, then here in 1991 and now... requires a central host. It takes one human being and acts through that person to affect others. But it has the ability, being free to move as it chooses, to invest a part of itself in more than one person. And it can come and go, once that connection is made, as it likes...until the connection is severed, or more likely, they die." "And that's what you're saying happened to Simone Benoit? This...whatever...had a connection with her, and when it wanted her dead..." "It made her do what it wanted," Craig confirmed. "And she likely never even knew she was doing it. It can mask its own intentions as your own thoughts, your own memories, disable your ability to recall events. It operates within the place where your mind resides, so it knows how to do these things in the same way you know how to move your hand to your face. You don't consider the process, don't consciously direct the signals from your brain to your hand and back." "And that what you're saying happened in Clark in '82," Doggett said, warming to the concept, even if he didn't necessarily believe it. "The killer was able to convince the parents of those kids to move into the right places, leave their kids vulnerable at the right times. He made the police forget whatever they might have seen in his office each time. He got into the kids' heads so they wouldn't try to get away, wouldn't struggle. And then after the killer was caught, it must have chosen a new host. Someone who could stop the police from investigating the evidence, someone who would have access to the press and be able to stop them from running too much information about what had happened. Someone with enough exposure to the community to make them think everything was safe again." Doggett stopped Craig by grabbing his shoulder. "Someone who could make sure that the killer would hang himself?" "You're beginning to understand what we've been dealing with," Craig said softly. He sighed, and indicated that they should keep walking. "In that case, the entity removed itself from the manager of the Willow Farm development and chose the Clark police chief as its new host. Soon after, he became the chief for the Cranford police department, and after meeting with many of the parents in the town and making the right connections, he began planning for his next opportunity to finish what he started." "And that's what happened ten years ago, with your sister?" Doggett asked, knowing the answer. "Yes," Craig said. "I think I see why Thomas wanted me to talk to you," Doggett admitted. "Only we're getting back to the same damn question, every time. What is it about McShane that's so special, that this...entity, as you say, couldn't control him? Or is that why he came back, as part of the entity's plans to finish what he started?" Craig shook his head. "Thomas came back because this is where he is supposed to be. I'll explain why in a moment. But it's tied to the reason that Thomas was able to resist the entity. When the killer came into his home, and tried to reach into Thomas' mind and control him...he woke something up. Something that had been waiting within Thomas from the day he was born. A potential, Agent Doggett, that was the reason he had been chosen to be the final victim in the first place. Only the entity never imagined just how vast that potential was." Doggett stopped again, eying Craig with suspicion. "What kind of potential?" "Isn't it obvious?" Craig said, that familiar smile returning. "He's like them, John. He's just like them..." "I'm not sure that it truly registered what had happened," Kirsten continued, still staring at the living room floor. "For a while, maybe a couple years, it was just this whisper in the back of my mind, a constant companion that made suggestions, reminding me that I was special. I would go back to the house when the voice said that it was time, to go through the same ritual over and over, but it was as if it was a dream. I think that it was watching us carefully, the children that it had chosen, seeing how we might react, slipping deeper and deeper into who we were...making changes. "And in the same way, I don't think I can remember when it started to change, when they started to pay more and more attention to how I reacted. All I know is that pretty soon, the voice started getting more insistent, and I was doing things that I couldn't understand. Saying things, going places...sometimes I would wake up with no memory of what I had been doing, or where I was. But the voice told me that it was all right, that it was a part of who I was, why I was special. And so I never questioned it, because it never really let me have that much control." Kirsten sighed, looking towards Monica. Monica knew what was coming next; she had heard it so many times before. "After I hit puberty, things changed again. As time was passing, and its attentions turned towards me, the other children began resisting. Maybe resisting isn't the word... it was more a matter of finding other interests. But it needs people to do its work. It needs us to redirect energy to it, to make it more powerful, to influence even more people, affect the physical world in more elaborate ways. The little things...the way the eyes change to blue when it's in control, making you forget, making you not see... those are easy. But controlling and pacifying thousands of people at once? It's not as easy. And sometimes you have to employ more traditional methods. "It was almost a thrill at first. By then I was almost never in control, like a spectator watching things happen from a hazy distance. It made me feel what it wanted me to feel, and sometimes, it would isolate just the good parts, make me feel just those moments, again and again. Within months I had all of them...boys, girls, didn't matter. It had been inside all of them long enough to know what they couldn't resist, what they wanted, what really got them off. And I was the one giving it to them...keeping them in line. "The people who knew kept it quiet. Those who didn't know, who were just the blinded masses, well...they saw the prim and proper young woman with all the friends, without a care. Well, that was because I wasn't in control long enough to care, to really understand what was being done to me. And at night, I'd go out and bind them even tighter to it, by leading the rituals in the park. Most of it was supplying the others with sex, drugs, alcohol...and when they were completely unable to resist, we would sacrifice the strays, reinforce the places that it said needed to be bound with the energy that is released at the moment of death." Kirsten shrugged. "That much...activity...it took its toll. Physically, we were all right. It can flush out the worst of it, the diseases, the organ damage, all of that. Any detailed medical exam would just show that we were typically stressed and socially active teenagers. But the mental toll was the worst. It's hard enough to keep yourself sane in this world, but when you can never act on your own, never make your own decisions...well, you stop caring. Let the world burn, we would say. We're the special ones, the ones who will end up on top, when the shit hits the fan! "Maybe deep inside, we knew. After a few years of it, I couldn't lose myself in the raw heat and bliss of it anymore. I could tell that I was drowning. But by the time I noticed, it had used me to destroy whatever resistance the others might have had. I was all alone, isolated, and it wasn't long before I realized that there was no one I could turn to. The ones in charge, they were the ones who had done this to me. Whatever friends I had were all too willing to continue. And the ones outside of its control didn't stay that way for long if I tried to tell them what was happening. It would shut me down, take over...and as soon as my eyes met theirs, it would be inside of them. They would forget or ignore every word I said. Or worse, they would blame me for it all, say it was my doing. Because from their point of view, that's exactly how it seemed." Kirsten sighed, flashing Monica a humorless smile. "It wasn't long after that it started giving me more control over my actions. I thought I had won, that I was strong enough to push it away, take back what little was left of my life. I should have known better. All it was doing was giving me just enough room to develop one last, desperate measure of hope. It didn't take long for it to crush it utterly. "When I thought I was in control, able to stop...I went to Unami, to try to tell the others that I wasn't going to do it anymore, that I was going to lead a normal life. I suppose I got what I had coming to me. They decided that I was going to give them what they wanted whether I liked it or not. It went on for hours, the voice taunting me the entire time, forcing me to feel the worst of the pain, and by the time morning came and I was finally able to stumble out of the woods, looking like...well, you can imagine. That was the moment that I gave up. I crawled into the shower, let the water soak me to the bone...and told it that whatever it wanted, if it wanted me dead...then fine. I couldn't do it anymore. "Even then, I hadn't learned. That was when I was fifteen. It went on for two more years. Night after night, it was the same. It gave me just enough control that I knew what was happening, but never let me have enough to act in my own defense. And I just more and more dead inside, until I started begging them to kill me. I'd dare them, urge them to hurt me more and more, hoping that maybe if they could just do enough damage quickly enough, it might not be able to fix it. But it was controlling them, so it just used that against me too. "In 1991, it was my senior year of high school. I was going through the motions, basically, acting as if I had every intention of leading a bright future. I applied to colleges, made plans for working over the Summer, made promises with friends and relatives. But the reality was that it told me I was going to die. I knew when, I knew where... and I knew why. It really did believe that it would be bringing out the end of the world, and the second coming. But it was looking for the power it might draw from that moment. It would make it happen, control it with rituals and sacrifices...and gain control in ways it never could alone. "It was insane, but there was nothing I could do to stop it anymore. And so when Summer came, and one night in August they came to the door asking for me...I knew. I walked out of my parent's house knowing that I was going to die. I told my mother and father that I would be back, but I knew I was never going to see them again. "They took me to Clark, to the place where the children had been murdered almost ten years earlier. That Willow Farm development. They took me to a specific spot behind one building. I felt it take control, watched through that haze as I took off my clothing, slipping naked to my knees, bowing down with my arms outspread, waiting for the cuts that would spill my blood into the grass. I heard them pull out the knives, heard them come closer...and with a smile on my face, and an expression of pure rapture, I waited to die." Kirsten smiled again, but this time it was genuine. "And then he came..." Craig led Doggett around a corner, the road stretching in the general direction of Unami Park. The thought of visiting that place again in the dark of night left Doggett uneasy, but he had the feeling that Craig had no intention of taking him there. He felt that this was a time to trust his guide to take him where he needed to go. "If he's like this entity like you say," Doggett reasoned, "then how did he get that way? And better yet, how is he working against it?" "When the entity tried to reach into Thomas' mind, it unlocked the latent ability that Thomas had to operate in the dimension that the entity comes from. We do it all the time, but he became conscious of that fact. The first thing he was able to do was block the entity from entering his mind, controlling contact with others. But he was too young and too new to the concept of what was happening to stop the entity from covering its tracks and moving to Cranford, using the police chief as a host. And since this new frame of reference left Thomas unable to easily deal with anybody else, now forced to consciously consider the unconscious ways we connect and communicate within that common sentience, his parents found themselves unable to deal with him." "They thought it was the trauma of the incident," Doggett said, seeing how it fit McShane's history and profile. Craig nodded. "But what they didn't understand is that this would have happened anyway. The entity's attempt to control Thomas was the trigger, true, but sooner or later, something would have served the same purpose. Thomas was supposed to be here, supposed to be aware to this extent. It's what he was born for. It's what he was meant to do since the moment he was conceived." "Yeah, you hinted at that before," Doggett said with a smirk. "I'm not sure I follow." "There was a reason I mentioned the Native lore before, beyond the idea that there are entities out there that can begin affecting the physical world. And it connects to McShane and his ancestry more than you might know. You might even say that he is the product of the will of his ancestors, acting on the desires of those who came before, imprinted within the stuff of his genetic code." "Can't wait to hear this," Doggett muttered. Craig ignored him. "There are shamans and others who speak of times of change coming. Some have referred to it as the sixth extinction, a time of great calamity when humanity will face its own demise...unless some action is taken to stop it." Doggett recalled something similar having been mentioned in one of the X-Files, something related to Mulder's contention that there was an alien-driven viral apocalypse looming on the horizon. "I think I might have heard of something like that." Craig grinned. "Then you might also know that there are those who have been acting to, well, divert their influence to try and make sure we can stop it. Or at least survive enough to continue the human race." This was beginning to sound too familiar. "Go on." "That's not even close to being a new concept," Craig said, practically rolling his eyes. "Dealing with the problem now is like trying to stop the boat from sinking after it's hit the iceberg and the water's up to your ears. The time for preparing a plan of action was thousands of years ago, when the shamans and druids and other holy people, those with the ability to operate in that higher dimension, knew what was coming." "How could they have known about something that wasn't going to happen for thousands of years?" Doggett said, his cynical tone returning. "Don't make the mistake of forgetting that time is just another dimension," Craig countered. "Time doesn't apply in the higher dimensions. For all intent purposes, everything and everyone that has ever lived, lives now, and ever will live...they're imprinted into the quantum states of the universe as a whole. But because we deal in the physical world, where time applies, we experience things differently. Events happen in sequence, instead of all at once." "Insanity," Doggett responded. "Science," Craig said calmly. "Remember the particles miles way from each other. Distance, time, it's been proven not to apply. Information is information, and that's what we amount to in that world...states to manipulate, nothing more. It doesn't matter when we perceive the information as coming to be. Whenever it comes to be at that level, it's as if it's always been there. As if it's everywhere. Our frame of reference no longer applies." Doggett gave him a barely tolerant smile. "Let's say your right, and these shamans and wise men figured out that thousands of years in the future, maybe now for that matter, humanity would be facing extinction. Why would that matter? Wouldn't they know if humanity survived, if they can see into the future? Just look ahead and see if someone knows the answer." "It's not that simple," Craig said with a sigh. "The other side to quantum states is the whole matter of probability. Everything's just a matter of a roll of the dice. Most of the time, it turns out as you think it will. But sometimes not. Beyond that, it's not as though you can just reach out and find whatever it is you're looking for. You have to have some underlying connection to the intelligence you are contacting. Or you might get lucky enough to contact something that can look for you. However you look at it, the further ahead you want to look, the less distinct and sure the result will be. "In this case, hundreds of holy men and prophets saw the same general result, the same moment of crisis." Doggett shook his head. "Even if I take everything you just said and believe it, this is where it comes down to faith over proof. Everything you just said comes down to whether or not you think they might be right. There's nothing to back this up." "Except the fact that you've heard of it before," Craig replied. " And Thomas is the product of the plans that were set in motion." "How is that?" Doggett asked warily. A movement behind them confirmed that the ravens were still following them. "There are places throughout the world where the natural flow of energy...the magnetic field of the planet, volcanic activity, what have you...they come together in such a way that in those locations, the dimension in which our intelligence resides intersects with the physical dimensions. It's a mathematical matter, in the end...you could take the effect of electromagnetic energy on the various dimensions and make a graphical representation, showing the points of intersection. Only in the physical sense, these are the places where an intelligence can more easily apply its own inherent energy to affect the physical world." "Like those Native stories you were talking about," Doggett said, remembering the beginning of their conversation. "Exactly. Only now, you see where those stories come from, and the reality behind it." Craig ignored Doggett's reply, which was to smirk. "Whatever it is that threatens us as a species, it's non-corporeal. It probably has a physical form of some kind, but it is just a conduit, a means to an end. All the action is within the higher dimension. It is a natural consequence of the way these entities work that they would seek out and use the places that allow them to affect our world the most, using the least energy possible. "Thousands of years ago, using the old and ancient ways, those aware of the eventual threat planted this information consciously within their own genetic code. I can't tell you how they might have done it...maybe by determining what form the physical vessel of the threatening intelligence might take, incorporating it into their own genetics using their heightened abilities or awareness. I personally don't know enough about it to say. "But the point is, the thing that matters, is that throughout history, there are those who have retained that gene, kept those abilities latently. They are eventually awakened, and they become aware of the connection that binds us together. They find the places where the dimensions converge, and they stand watch. They make sure nothing comes through that's not supposed to." "And this is what Thomas is," Doggett said, finally catching on to what Craig was trying to tell him. "He's one of these... what? Watchers?" "We call them sentinels," Craig said softly, stopping Doggett as they came to a corner. "The Natives that speak of such things to outsiders refer to them as something like 'keepers of the gates'. The Celtic reference is similar. One of Thomas' Celtic ancestors, likely a druid or someone in the same caste, knew what was coming and made sure that his descendents would be able to act when the time came." "So, what, are you saying that this entity is part of the coming apocalypse?" Doggett asked, not sure he wanted to hear the answer. "Not quite," Craig answered. "It's likely that the entity in question has some idea of what is coming, and wants in on the action. But it's not as powerful as it wants to be. It found a way into our world about 30 years ago, in this area, and it has been trying to draw as much power and energy into itself as it can ever since." "But why was it here for so long before someone realized it had come through this supposed gate?" Doggett asked. "Because this gate, the one it crossed through...it's not natural," Craig replied. "Remember, I told you, electromagnetic fields are the root cause behind these intersections between the dimensions. Naturally occurring gates are numerous enough, but over the last several decades, as the human race has spread its technology across the planet...well, it's changed things dramatically. Power lines, electrical systems, power plants...all of these things create unnatural points of high energy electromagnetic field activity." "And so when this came through, it wasn't through one of the places that would have been expected," Doggett realized. "It was only after it began to act, after it crossed someone with the right...I think I see what you're saying. It came through in Clark, made the plans to make itself more powerful, and Thomas stopped it." "Only as a result, Thomas became the sentinel for the gate that the entity came through, the one no one else had uncovered," Craig agreed. "And once that responsibility began to take hold, he had to come back to this place, no matter what it took." Doggett ran the details of McShane's record through his mind, seeing how it all fit into place. "Then why all the trespassing?" "The entity found its way through unnaturally," Craig explained. "It didn't know where the gate was. It assumed it was in Clark. Thomas assumed the same thing at first, when he came back. "That's why he was there when it tried to kill my sister to complete the ritual it had started years before." "The first of them fell with hardly a sound," Kirsten resumed, her eyes slightly unfocused as she strained to remember. "I really don't know who it was. I was still looking down, waiting to die. It wasn't until I felt something slide across my face that I realized what was happening. As soon as his fingers touched my skin, it was like this pulse of wind, rushing through my veins...and wherever that wind touched, the thing that was controlling me was gone. "He pulled my gaze up away from the ground, and as soon as I looked into those brilliant emerald eyes, I felt it slip away, and I was in control. Or, rather, it was no longer in control...I was too busy sobbing and thrusting myself into his arms to be in any kind of shape to control myself. I don't remember much more after that. He pulled off his shirt and pulled it over me, covering me as best he could, and then dealt with the others, the ones still standing. "They might tell you that those weapons of his are meant for killing, and under certain circumstances, they might be needed for that. But he would just utter a word and motion with one of them, and it would confuse them, cause them pain. I think it might have disrupted whatever connection there might have been between it and its followers. Whatever the effect, it left them vulnerable enough that he could deal with them physically. "I pulled on some of my own clothes, and by the time that the last of them was out cold and Thomas was coming to help me out of there, we saw the lights and heard the sirens. Once the connection was cut, you see, they knew that the sacrifice had not happened, and they came to try to finish the job. Thomas remembered some of the runoff tunnels that ran behind the buildings, and made sure I was out of reach before they caught up with him." She hesitated, and Monica took her hand, reassuring her. "What about now? Do you still hear the voices now?" Kirsten smiled widely, shaking her head. "No. Not once after that night, after Thomas reached into my mind and forced that thing out. But there was a price." She gestured towards her eyes. "Out of all the children, they felt I had the most potential to fight off this thing's influence, if I wasn't pulled into its web. It told me that much. They picked me because I was the strongest. Whatever Thomas had to do, it closed me off from everyone and everything... except him. And for whatever reason, when my eyes went from blue to their normal state, the green flecks in my eyes were gone." Monica looked into Kirsten's eyes, trying to understand how that might have happened. "So Thomas was able to do the same kinds of things that this evil presence was able to do...but he fights it." Kirsten nodded hesitantly. "It's a bit more complicated than that, but you've got the gist of it. I never heard the details of what happened that night, but when Thomas was released several days later, he looked like he had been through pure hell. And considering what you just heard, you can imagine how bad it really was." Monica nodded soberly. "And because of the circumstances surrounding his arrest, they weren't about to charge him." "No," Kirsten agreed. "And they didn't try to find a substitute for me, because I think they knew that he would be waiting for them. He knew what they had been planning with me, after all." She shook her head. "They made more than one mistake, though. They could have drawn my brother into it all, but instead they used him as leverage against my actions. If I did something to try to break the cycle during those last few years, he paid the price." "But it seems as though Craig has the same kind of potential, or at least the ability to connect with Thomas," Monica pointed out. "Thomas discovered that," Kirsten replied. "Craig had buried all of that so far inside of himself that it took Thomas and the need to keep me safe to wake it up. You see, once the opportunity passed, they wanted to eliminate the chance of future interference. So for a while, they would send someone after me, or him, or even Craig, after he started getting involved. It went on like that until the night Thomas found the gate. Then he set us up here, with Craig living down in Edison until we need him to help." Monica remembered her reaction when they arrived at the apartment, her recognition of the lodge and its utility. "Thomas is using the Masonic Lodge to augment the protections he has set up here. And those ravens...they also watch over you?" Kirsten nodded. "The ravens are something Thomas learned about very quickly. It's part of his heritage. According to Native lore, ravens watch over the places where our world meets the Otherworld. There is something similar in Celtic tradition, but they are also the representation of the Morrigan." Kirsten watched her closely. "You are familiar with those traditions?" "To an extent, yes," Monica said with a smile. "The Morrigan is a representation of the Mother Goddess, with an emphasis on the warrior maiden. A somewhat bloody and violent representation, if I remember." "Sometimes that's what's required," Kirsten replied. "Thomas has been given a task to watch over the gate that that thing came out of. That task comes from something much bigger than he is. I can't see it. That's been taken away from me." She sighed, and then looked towards the stairs. "But Thomas can feel it. And so can Rhiannon." Monica followed her gaze. "Your daughter has these gifts as well?" Kirsten nodded. "My potential is genetic, after all. I've just been prevented from accessing it, because it would be too easy for...it would find me, if I reached out. It was inside of me too long." She nodded towards the stairs. "But add Thomas' potential to mine, and it's not hard to understand how Rhiannon would have her own." "Aren't you afraid that it might come after her?" Monica asked, her natural concern exposing itself. "Every day and night," Kirsten admitted. "But beyond the protection Thomas has arranged, there is someone who watches over her. Even now, she's here." She smiled. "Thomas says it's the Mother, making sure Rhiannon doesn't end up in their hands. Maybe so. All I know is that when push comes to shove, after about a year, they left me alone. They concentrated on Thomas and Craig." "Thomas' record shows that he is still getting arrested now and then," Monica pointed out. "If Thomas already knows where the gate is, why the trespassing and the rest?" "The time is here for something to happen again," Kirsten explained. "After the last time, they have to know where the gate is themselves. Thomas and my brother were trying to discover what they had planned, so they could be stopped with minimal loss of life. The fact that more than one person is dead, in more than one location, tells me that Thomas was right. They are trying something new this time. And they managed to take him out of the fight." She looked into Monica's eyes. "Craig is still just learning how to do the things Thomas does naturally. He can't do it himself. And once this is done, someone is going to have to help knock them out of authority." Monica understood. "That's why you called John." "And once Thomas spoke with him, understood the situation your friend was in, he made sure that you were called in," Kirsten finished. Monica stood up slowly, looking out the window. Darkness had descended all around them, but even in the pale light of the moon, she could see the forms of the ravens that remained in the yard. "Thomas can watch what is happening out here through them, can't he? That's what you meant when you said a little birdie told you we were coming." "That's right," Kirsten confirmed. She stood as well, following Monica's gaze. "Why does that worry you?" "Because as much as I believe in these kinds of connections, and as many times as I've dealt with things like this...I'm never comfortable dealing with something that is this capricious." She shrugged. "We've dealt with something similar recently, a case I helped him with. Something like this killed his son. In those cases, we either dodged the actual confrontation or it was contained." She looked back out the window. "What you're telling me is that we're going to have to come at it directly this time. That's not something to shake a stick at." Kirsten placed a hand on her shoulder. "You see the way things are. You know what resources are available. We'll do what we can, but Thomas needs both of you to end this. Can you help us?" Monica nodded, smiling. "Of course we can. John might have some reservations, but I'll do what I can to convince him that we need to help you." She noticed the Charles de Lint book again, and read the cover. "Moonheart...it's been a while since I read this. I can see why his work is a part of your collection now. Still not too sure about the rest, but I imagine that will become a little clearer in time." "John will explain it to you," Kirsten said confidently. "Thomas has been keeping Craig up to date on all of these topics, and since it's a scientific basis for what's happening, he figured that John would have an easier time accepting what is happening from that side of the matter." Monica rolled her eyes. "To be honest, I have no idea how he'll deal with all of this. But he's not the type to leave people in a bad situation. He'll do what he can, regardless of whether or not he believes in what's happening." Her eyes fell on the Bible again, and she thought about the verse McShane had referenced. "Do you have any idea why Thomas would have told us to look into Genesis 4:7?" Kirsten looked confused for a moment, and then grinned. "Oh...he was a little obscure about that, wasn't he? That's not a reference to a verse from Genesis. "It's a reference to a song..." "So all this time, Thomas was trying to find out their plans," Doggett said as they cautiously walked down a darkened road. "Only they were anticipating his actions, and took him out of the game early." "And so I'm trying to figure this out, with Thomas getting involved in the limited capacity that he can, given our only method of communication," Craig confirmed. "But there is one last thing I wanted you to see, before you decided your next move." "My next move might be to forget all this mess about quantum this and quantum that, and gatekeepers and other dimensions, and go back to Washington," Doggett replied truthfully. "It could be," Craig admitted. Then he flashed that smile again. "But something tells me that once you see what I'm about to show you, you won't be able to do that with a clear conscience." "And what would that be?" Doggett snapped back. He was cold, he was tired, and his brain was spinning in more directions that he could count. If the purpose of the day had been to overwhelm him with information, then in a certain sense, they had succeeded. Only they might not like his response, he thought grimly. Craig led him down the road, and then pointed to a house across the street, about halfway down the block. It was a poorly lit one-story ranch house. The windows seemed to be oddly shaded, as if possibly boarded-up or covered from the inside. Had he driven by the house in the middle of the day, and it was possible that he already had, it was unlikely that he would have expected anyone to be living there. But that impression would have apparently been wrong. "There are an awful lot of cars surrounding that house," Doggett muttered to Craig. "A couple police cruisers." He listened closely for a moment, then shook his head. "No noise. If all those people are in that house, they are being very quiet." "There are people there," Craig said, the tone of his voice a mixture of anger and sadness. "The front door is a fake. It's sealed tight as a drum. The only entrance is from the back, into the basement." Doggett regarded him with a worried look in his eyes. "Then how are we supposed to get a look at this place without them knowing? I assume that's what this is about?" "Simple answer to a simple question, Agent Doggett," Craig replied with a grin. "We're going to have to go onto the property behind the house." He shook his head when Doggett glared at him. "Do you want to know what this place is or not?" Doggett hesitated, and then nodded his assent. "We take a look, and then we go back to the apartment." Craig agreed. "Come on. There are bushes along the back fence. We should be able to take a quick peek without being seen." He gestured towards a nearby tree. Light reflected in half a dozen pairs of green eyes. "We'll know if there's trouble." Doggett wasn't so sure about that last part, but he followed Craig around the block and onto the property behind the ranch. He decided that if there were any questions from the owners of the property regarding their presence in the yard, he could always flash the badge and claim that it was part of an investigation. He was still considering the look that Skinner would have on his face when he sent in his next status report when Craig stopped him, gesturing to a spot between two large interwoven bushes. He knelt down next to Craig, looked in the direction the younger man pointed. As with so many houses, cut into the ground was a small concrete stairway leading into a basement. The level of light evident in the doorway was difficult to determine, due to the very bright halogen lights shining down from the corner of the eaves overhead. There was the faint murmur of voices, and Doggett recognized many of them as the voices of children. "What is this place," Doggett whispered. "Why are you showing me this?" He noticed that there were a couple men walking out of the basement, and Doggett swore lightly under his breath as he recognized Officer Davis. "The other man is Charles Fell," Craig explained quietly. "Now you know why he was too busy to meet with you. He's the central host now. He was making sure everything was in place." "For what?" Doggett demanded, but Craig gestured for him to keep looking. As his eyes fell again on the stairway, he saw two more people coming around the side of the building. He recognized one of them as Eric Decampo. He was leading a teenage girl by the arm, steadily walking her towards the basement stairs. Her face was expressionless, as if she were unable to register what was happening around her. Her clothes were disheveled, her hair tangled. If he had been asked to guess, based on her appearance, she had likely been the victim of some kind of sexual assault. But there was something in the way she moved, the deadened look around her eyes, that told him there was more to it than that. "Theresa McMillan," Craig whispered, and Doggett could feel the barely restrained desire for action in the man's voice. "What was done to my sister, the things they out her through... they did the same to her. Only they're making damned sure we can't stop them this time." "Stop them from doing what?" Doggett asked. "Killing her," Craig said curtly. When Doggett moved, obviously intent on stopping her from being led into the basement, Craig stopped him. "There's nothing to be done, Agent Doggett. Understand...she's dead already." He tapped at his temple. "Up here, there's nothing left anymore. Everything she was, her ability to think and react...what you see in front of you is an empty shell. This is the end of the process, a final stroke to give that thing what it wants." He sighed, looking Doggett in the eye. "Besides, they are expecting me to try to stop them. They want that, John. If we try to stop this, they will just kill you and frame me for it. Just like they are intent on making sure Thomas never interferes again when this is over." Realization dawned on Doggett, and he forced himself to look at the scene again. "They let Thomas tell us anything he wanted, once it was clear he had failed." Craig nodded. "They want him to know what's happening. They want him to experience the loss, feel every inch of the pain and sorrow. And then, when the rituals are done, they will start killing us." Craig shrugged. "I'll be first, I guess. Then Kirsten and Rhiannon." He looked back at Doggett. "They let you hear everything, do whatever you like, because the moment you try to leave or tell anyone what they are up to, you become a liability. As far as they're concerned, you're on the same list now." "You knew this, and you let me bring Monica into the middle of it?" Doggett snapped out, his eyes filled with anger. "That's right," Craig said without a pause. "Because we needed you, and you needed her, if we have any chance of stopping this." The sound of a child's laughter drew Doggett's attention back to the house as Craig continued. "Look at it this way, Agent Doggett. Whether or not you believe any of what I've told you, even if you ignore what you cannot explain...you know people are being killed. You can see now that these are the people who are making it happen, and maybe you can guess at what else they are doing in that basement. The rituals are real, the cult activity is real, and they are involving children. Even if that is the only thing that you can recognize as real, as true...can you honestly get your partner, get in your car, and drive back to Washington, pretending that none of this is happening?" As Doggett watched, his heartbeat pounding in his ears, Theresa was led into the basement. He did not move again, did not speak, until the ringing echo of the steel doors slamming shut faded into the silence. Chapter Five November 30, 2000 The last vestiges of the long, late autumn night passed unseen by John Doggett as he sat staring into the coming dawn, his gaze taking in nothing and everything all at once. Words and images continued to pass in and out of his conscious thoughts, moments from the last several months echoing the words of Craig Walden, just as often, the reverse. It was all a jumble of double meaning and endless repetition, themes emerging like a hologram from the bareness of facts. The walk from the house back to McShane's apartment had passed in a daze, the seemingly endless stretch of asphalt and stone intertwined with the sound of Craig's voice as he continued to speak about the universe that Thomas had revealed to him, in the years of his training following the struggle to safeguard his sister Kirsten. He spoke about spirits, and ghosts, and the secrets of the soul. He spoke of the origins of man and the hidden ways in which humanity was still controlled. But above all, he spoke of the need to support those with the gifts to fight back the tide of darkness that threatened to overwhelm them all. "When our world was seeded with life from elsewhere, by some other intelligence," Craig had said, his words providing a rhythm as they walked, "there was design in that. Oh, in the actions of those seeding the planet, certainly, but I was talking about a larger scheme. A greater intelligence. I think of it as a basic, mathematical matrix that spans the physical bounds of the universe. That's where all the connections are...inside of us, yes, but mostly out there." If Craig pointed to the sky, Doggett did not notice. "In space, in that vast, silent eternity. It's from that eternal silence that we began, and it's where we will return." For Doggett, it was as if the conversation had corroded, fallen into a series of moments that somehow fit together, but no longer in sequence. What he missed, he found he could no longer identify. Seeing his silence as assent, Craig continued as they made their way towards the center of town. "Our bodies, these shells, they are an illusion. The limits of our physical senses take away any vague remnant of that knowledge of oneness. Children feel it, before they are taught to feel alone, isolated. It doesn't matter, really, because in the end, that's where we return. A part of us remains as it is here, distinct, able to act independent of the whole. But there is equally that commonality. Even as we are, it manifests...in the actions of our ancestors, the plans they set into motion. And even now. Thomas was compelled to act because the balance was disrupted by the intelligence that sought to gain power here." On and on, step by step, the rhythm had continued. "It was that sense of oneness that allowed our ancestors to discover and determine the alien parts of our own being, that part of us that was part of that seed that came here. It's in all of us, but in people like Thomas, natural triggers were inserted into the genetic code to activate that part when it was needed. Sooner or later, John, it all comes down to when intelligences that seek to dominate and control arrive again, as they have before. We will bring it on ourselves, they say. But we have the secret weapons, you see, the people already armed with their weapons!" Occasionally there had been the sound of distant wings, the telltale call of the raven, and Doggett had known they were not alone. Whether it was McShane or something else, they were being observed. "One could see it as a virus," Craig had said, and for a moment Doggett had heard him clearly, the haze of encroaching doubt lifting ever so slightly. "A virus comes into our genetic code, and it inserts its own logic into our programming. That gets passed on. Sometimes it's a good thing for it to be dormant, but then again, it leaves us that much more vulnerable when the virus comes for us again, doesn't it? It's better sometimes to have that viral programming running active, maybe changing you in little ways, but more than likely giving you an immunity to the disease." "Is that what this is?" Doggett had asked, and he had been stunned by the rasp of his own voice in the chill night air. "A virus?" "Thinking of it as a virus can be instructive," Craig had answered, as if not hearing Doggett's words. "But it's not the truth. The truth is that the virus, our bodies... it's all just a vehicle. It's the intelligence behind the vehicle that's the root cause of it all. That's what the real enemy is. Fighting the tool it uses does nothing to end the threat, if the intelligence behind the tool remains." There was truth in that, Doggett had seen, but he had considered it a happy moment when he had discovered that they were back at the apartment. He had seen his own uncertainty and horror reflected in Monica's eyes, when they had spoken briefly under the watchful eye of the Waldens. Neither of them had known where to begin. He had been unable to put it all into coherent thought, and so she had told him everything she had heard, as he drove them back to the hotel in Clark. Her story had gone a long way to filling the gaps in Craig's narrative, but there were still other gaps that remained unresolved within Doggett's mind. They had gone their separate ways after returning to the hotel. Monica had claimed the need for sleep and rest, but he remembered the haunted afterimage of her expression. It was not something he had seen often in anyone, and certainly less often in her. She had always been the one to stay steady within the storm of the unusual and labyrinthine. But even her grit had been sorely tested by what she had heard, no matter how familiar it had sounded on the surface. But Monica had the benefit of being allowed to believe. She had no reason not to allow her own feelings and stirrings of insight guide towards unconventional conclusions and theories. She could afford the luxury of what he had once called "sloppy thinking". Behind the trappings of whale song and crystals, there was a rationale that she could rely on, something perhaps greater than herself that she could draw on. She had done it all those years ago, when his son had been murdered, and she had done it again recently. And how could he claim that he didn't believe it himself? When they had still been on Mulder's trail, those months ago, he had called her in as the expert in cult activity. It had been about realistic and concrete investigative techniques, certainly, but hadn't there been more to the decision than that? Her so-called "spiritual leanings"? It had not been long before that time when Dana had spoken with him, struggling in her way to maintain hope and composure, telling him something about Mulder's sister and starlight. That there were entities out there called "walk-ins", who took children away under mysterious circumstances when their lives were in mortal danger. These "walk-ins" would make the children into starlight, where they would reside in the spaces between stars until they could be reborn again. He had listened carefully, even dutifully, but in the end, had he truly understood? His memory failed him. He knew what his instinctive and immediate reaction should have been. He should have questioned it, dismissed it as fantasy. That's what he was likely to have done. But now he had to wonder. Had that conversation with Agent Scully been part of the reason he had called in Monica to aid in the search for Mulder? Sitting in his hotel room, the curtains pulled open as wide as possible, his eyes staring out into the night as the cars raced by on the nearby Parkway, he had gone over it all in his head, revisiting his decisions and reactions, questioning the basis of his own assumptions. Weeks before, while following a lead into Mulder's disappearance, he had encountered a creature that could apparently heal people of their illnesses and wounds. Though the memory was hazy and indistinct, he knew that he had been mortally wounded by the local sheriff. He had died, and the creature had brought him back to life, restored in body and spirit. He had never revisited that experience, knowing that it was something that he could never explain, never rationalize with cold, unyielding fact. Even the faintest glimpse of what appeared to be Mulder, standing and watching over him as he tried to put that experience into words for an official report, had not pushed him into pursuing it further. Because he knew that it was too close to the kind of belief that he could not allow himself, that his sense of reality and responsibility could not permit. Only now, there was an explanation, a rationale for those experiences. If he had ever wondered, in the depths of his subconscious, how he had survived his own death and been apparently reborn without any effect on his mind, now he had the explanation. McShane, through his disciple, had given him the answer. His body was nothing more than a shell, a tool, and his mind and soul had remained intact and distinct, even as his body was consumed and reborn. Seeing Mulder had been no accident. If Mulder's own memories were to be believed, he had been near death himself during that same period of time. Perhaps he had even been dead, or caught in that terrible in-between. It really did not matter. What mattered was the fact that Mulder's intelligence, his spirit, had been searching for its own answers, and that journey had brought him, for that moment, to Doggett. And that similarity of circumstance, that connection, had been enough to allow Doggett to see the intent of Mulder's own will. In the stillness that fell within his room as night deepened, and the lights that streaked by became fewer and fewer, Doggett's introspection also descended. He had been living in a state of perpetual denial, forcing himself to ignore anything that threatened his sense of reality and order. He chuckled to himself as he remembered how he had questioned the idea of Mulder's apparent resurrection, never once relating it to his own, seeing the common bond that they now shared. They were still unsure of how Mulder had managed to remain himself after the massive invasion of his body by the supposed alien virus, the result of his abduction. But perhaps now he had that answer as well. Some alien intelligence had attempted to take over, to suborn Mulder's own body to its will. But by whatever means, Mulder himself had resisted that invasion. Vague memories of the X-Files made Doggett wonder if it had something to do with his earlier exposures to apparently similar infections. Perhaps it was as Craig had said. The will behind those infections had been the same, even if the virus itself had been different. And once Mulder had developed the means to defeat that invading intelligence, to drive it out, he had retained some measure of that for all time. It was difficult now to question the idea of the aliens, and the forms they apparently took. He had seen the effects of the virus, the way it had changed Billy Miles and nearly changed Mulder. There was the black oil, and all of the stories and files that he had read about that strange substance. Even after the incident on the oil rig, less than a month ago, doubts had remained. But according to the files, the black oil was just a medium for the alien intelligence. And that was exactly the kind of thing that McShane was trying to warn him about. So could it all be true? Suddenly alien bounty hunters that could change shape didn't seem so hard to reconcile. If there was reason to believe that an alien could actually control and use oil as a body, why not a form that could shape with sufficient will? It could even be as the files suggested, that all of these things were just different forms of the same alien intelligence. An alien intelligence, Mulder's reports had claimed, that was responsible for creating and guiding the evolution of life on Earth. Just as Craig had said, with a slightly different point of view. But in the end, it was all the same. His throat became dry, but he did not move to quench his thirst. He simply continued to stare out into the night, trying to understand this new way of thinking, this new way of seeing. An ancient evil that could move from person to person, something so hard for him to reconcile when Monica had first suggested the idea a few weeks ago, was now given a compelling basis. This thing that they were dealing with here and now was merely a cousin to that, acting in a nearly identical way. In both instances, the intelligences seemed overextended, unable to completely hide their actions. And so they relied on controlling others to keep their identities concealed. Unlike the entity they had encountered recently, this new entity was young and more effective, able to control more than one person at a time. It was a massive difference. He wanted to stop it there, bring this cycle to an end before it could take him places he desperately did not want to go, but the thoughts kept creeping into his consciousness. He couldn't accept the fact that there had been that little boy, murdered ten years in the past, suddenly appearing months ago and interacting like a living, breathing child. There had been no way that he could begin to explain that, or accept it. A different picture was now forming in his mind, a picture of a young child's mind and soul, dedicating itself to gathering enough power and energy to appear again as it had once been, to reveal its own fate. Almost in reflex, he forced himself to think of anything else, to divert the inevitable course of his thoughts towards anything else. And so he began remembering the nightmares and terrifying memories of his experience with Tipit, the madman who had thought himself elevated into a higher plane of consciousness and awareness. Tipit had claimed to be able to get into the dreams of others, to control their actions. In the wake of Tipit's death, he had been unable to tell if his nightmares were real or imagined. Dana had assured him that with Tipit dead, there was no longer a threat. But was that true? What if Tipit really had found a way to tap into the larger consciousness, into the same levels of shared knowledge and connections that McShane claimed to operate within? Wouldn't that mean that everything Tipit had claimed to be able to do was real? And had it all been a dream, or was there some connection between him and Tipit during those last hours, severed just in time by the chaotic moments of physical death? Over and over, it all coursed through his thoughts, and again and again, he tried to tell himself that it was all an illusion, a fiction for dreamers and the marginally insane. But he knew better. McShane had made certain that he would hear the science behind it all first, so he would be unable to dismiss any of it out of hand. Taken on its own, he could have done just that. But with science providing the explanation, with the only point of contention being the labels and interpretations given to it? He could not dismiss it. Knowing that the science was the only thing he could not ignore, at one point he had pulled out a fresh stack of paper. In quick, precise strokes, he wrote it all down in as much detail as he could remember. The references to quantum theory and quantum states of particles. The idea of how they could become related and connected, and how that could be the place where intelligence resided. The concepts of memory as nothing more than information, stored within this other place, able to be accessed without regard to time or space. Everything that Craig had told him, he wrote down, forcing himself at times to discover his own words and explanations, if only to make sure it was all there. And now, as the twilight began giving way to morning, as he returned to his introspection, his vigil of the newly cast world outside those glass windows, a stack of pages sat on the table beside him. It had only taken him a moment to determine the right person to send the pages to. That had been within the files as well. Even though he had diverted his attentions with that task, he still found himself unable to stop himself from thinking about the one thing he wanted to dismiss. If all of it was true, if there was more to this world than what he could see with his eyes, or touch with his bare hands, and if it was all supported by a science that could not be denied, then he had to accept the damning fact that he could have saved his son. Facing that fact, it was only the slim acknowledgment that he needed to have the science confirmed by an expert that left him able to function on any level. Even grasping at that lifeline, he was still barely able to respond when he heard the knock on his door. The door opened, and he turned, startled. He had forgotten to lock it, earlier in the night. Monica walked in, holding her own stack of paper, her eyes also revealing a complete lack of sleep. "John," she said softly, dispensing with the usual pleasantries. "Are you all right?" He wasn't sure how to respond, so he shrugged. "I don't know. I had a lot to think about." Monica nodded, knowing what he had to be referring to. For a fleeting weak moment, he resented her understanding. "We have a lot to do today. We should tell Skinner something, even if we stall and tell him we are still working on getting anything solid. But we need to talk to McShane again, and figure out what they have planned as soon as possible." The urgency in her voice pulled him back to the demands of the present. "Is there a reason we need to work so quickly?" "I was thinking about it last night," Monica said, her voice wavering slightly. "If all of this is according to some schedule, something to do with the month that the killings take place, then they waited as long as possible, setting everything up ahead of time." "Which means it's all coming together tonight," he reasoned, cursing under his breath. "Probably before midnight," Monica agreed. "Then we need to move fast," Doggett added, grabbing his suit jacket. "I need to send a fax, and make that call to Skinner. I also want to call Agent Scully, to let her know the fax is coming." "Agent Scully?" Monica asked, noticing the stack of scribblings for the first time. Catching some of the words and phrases, she looked at him oddly. "Are you sure about that?" Doggett smiled slightly, forcing himself to forget the lingering doubts that threatened to overwhelm him. "Dr. Dana Scully," he said purposefully, "who according to her file, wrote her senior thesis on a new interpretation of Einstein's twin paradox..." "No, sir, I'm not trying to be difficult," Doggett said for what he thought was about the seventeenth time. "Yes, I understand the position I'm putting you in. But there is a good reason why I'm keeping our findings under wraps for the moment. There are a number of things that need to be verified before I feel comfortable about making this an official part of the investigation." "I'd reconsider that if I were you," Skinner said, loudly enough that Monica turned and gave Doggett a look of surprise and slight apprehension. He found it amusing to think that a pissed-off assistant director was more daunting than the thought of an evil spirit attempting to commit mass murder. "Walter, trust me," Doggett said. "This is not a decision I've made lightly. There are circumstances that lead me to believe that this information might be potentially inflammatory. You were right about the local boys in blue being more than a little hostile. I just think another day or two is not going to make much difference to Kersh, but it could help a lot on this end." There was a pause, and then Skinner appeared to get the hint. "So you have some idea of who's behind the killings?" It wasn't hard to see that Skinner had figured out that the local police were involved. "We're getting there. We're going to have another little chat with McShane to verify some of the information on this end, and then we're going to try to take all of this and make some sense of it. Agent Reyes believes that she might be able to take the details of the rituals in question and determine what their next move will be." "Then I guess I'll just have to put Kersh off for another few days," Skinner said with a sigh. "I can't believe the amount of pressure that's coming down from that office lately. They must be out for blood, and with Mulder out of the Bureau, and Scully on leave..." "I know, we're vulnerable," Doggett admitted. "I'm sure that Kersh knew this was going to be more than just the typical bag-and-tag homicide." "Which only means that you have to keep your eyes wide open, Agent Doggett," Skinner warned him. "Bringing in Agent Reyes was a move that you can justify, but make sure that you keep this as clean as you can." "I just want to have Agent Scully review some of the more technical points in the information we've gathered," Doggett replied. Before Skinner could object, he quickly added, "She is technically still a part of the department, after all, and since she's on leave, it's not going to add to the budget." "Never thought of that," Skinner admitted. "All right, send it to Scully. But Agent Doggett...under no circumstances are you to bring Mulder into this. You understand that?" "Absolutely," Doggett agreed. "I'll update you when we get something solid." Cutting the connection before Skinner could add anything more, he hit the speed dial for Scully's home number. He had felt a little strange adding that feature, but even Mulder had insisted at the time. He placed the phone to his ear as he heard someone answer. "Hello?" Of course, it had to happen. "Agent Mulder," Doggett said, and he caught Monica's amused grin as she turned to face him. "I was calling for Agent Scully. Is she around?" There was the slightest pause, and then Mulder was back on the line. "Just Mulder, Agent Doggett. And no, she's at a doctor's appointment. She might be a little hard to reach today, actually. Did you want me to have her call you back?" "It's actually something I need to send to her, and get her opinion on," Doggett replied. "I have a large document that I wanted to fax to her this morning. Do you have any idea what number I should use?" "Just a second," Mulder said, and Doggett could hear him walking into another part of the room. "You could probably send it to her computer using the dedicated line. Here's the number..." Doggett recited the number while Monica wrote it down. "Thanks...Mulder." "Uh huh," Mulder said with the slightest of pauses. "Listen, Agent Doggett, I'm assuming this is official business, and for her eyes only. Right?" Doggett had to smile. As if Mulder would be able to resist looking it over himself! But now that Doggett considered it, it made sense. Mulder had spent most of his life searching for the kinds of answers that Doggett might have uncovered. If he knew that Mulder would look at it anyway, what was the harm? "Let's just say that Skinner told me not to bring you into this," Doggett replied. "But he didn't say anything about Scully consulting you on some of the points she finds personally interesting." "Unofficially, of course," Mulder added, appreciation in his voice. "Unofficially," Doggett confirmed. "I'll be sending that fax within the hour." Slipping his phone back into his pocket, Doggett turned to Monica and shook his head. "I should have known he would wind up involved in this." "Probably for the best," Monica said with a sigh. "If there really is a possibility that they would be willing to kill us to keep their activities under wraps, then we're just adding another target by contacting Agent Scully." "Unlikely," Doggett disagreed. "We're actually here, in the area, where they can get to us. Making a move against Agent Scully in Washington would expose them to a greater chance of discovery." "Still, better that Mulder be aware of what we've uncovered," Monica said. "I suppose," Doggett replied, and then he smiled. "Bet you he says this is a virus. He always says it's a virus..." 10:15 AM The reception at the police station was friendly and cordial this morning; a sure sign that they were no longer considered a threat. Officer Davis led them into the interrogation room with a smile, as if he had been imagining the moment that he would be able to act against them personally. Doggett almost wished that he could settle it here and now, but he knew that acting rashly would only eliminate whatever chances they had to stop what the locals had planned. Besides, the benefit of having your mind replay all of your recent mistakes was sometimes having the ability to prevent oneself from repeating them. And in this case, he had no intention of ending up face down with an exit wound the size of a chicken pot pie in his chest. McShane looked almost as exhausted as he and Reyes were, and then he remembered that McShane had likely been present during every moment of the last 24 hours, in some way or form. And perhaps their mutual adversary had been applying a different kind of pressure, forcing McShane to spread himself more thinly than in the past. As Craig had told him, McShane was still learning how to do what his abilities allowed. Struck by the feeling that time was short, Doggett began almost immediately after they walked into the room. "We spoke with the Waldens, Thomas. They confirmed what you said. Everything." "And much more than that," Monica added. "Agent Doggett hasn't heard the song you told me about yet, but I have. It's all there, isn't it?" "Yes," McShane admitted. "Or at least, it has provided a bit of inspiration for something that desired to know the physical world, and found itself a willing host. Only the host was not a typical, productive member of society." "Do you know who this person was?" Doggett demanded. "Not quite," McShane admitted. "All I know is that in 1973, someone with a rather hefty drug habit...heroin, cocaine, LSD, you name it...was listening to that song when he decided that he wanted to be the engine that drove the second coming into existence. He learned a few rituals to invoke and manifest a spirit, got high as a kite, and then succeeded. He more or less pulled an alien intelligence right into his own head while hallucinating. Imagine never knowing physical senses, not even being able to contemplate them...and then finding yourself in the middle of a very, very bad trip." "It wasn't evil," Monica whispered. "It wasn't anything," McShane said, almost dismissing her comment. "Human morals were not even a consideration. It simply wanted to know physical form. That's it. But then it was ripped into this addict's head, and suddenly it found itself in a world that it couldn't reconcile. So it went mad, and took on the insane quest of the person who pulled it through." "Craig said that it came through some kind of gate," Doggett interjected. "That's right," McShane admitted. "The potential gate was there, and the ritual act opened it wide. I think it originated in the place that eventually became the Willow Farm development, which is why the rituals started in 1982 came very close to working. But by the time that the next ritual was attempted, in 1991, the gate had moved." "Moved?" Monica asked. "Moved how?" "These gates are dependent on natural and now artificial electromagnetic fields," McShane reminded them. "The magnetic fields of the planet change over time, and as more and more electrical power is routed into all those new homes, the patterns change. This gate that was opened in Clark moved to a location somewhere in Cranford over the last fifteen years or so." "You know where the gate is now?" Monica said, a plan forming in her mind. "I did," McShane said softly. "But I wouldn't know how to show you where it is without a map, and it's unlikely that we're going to get one to use now." Doggett nodded. "So if we haven't been to the place where the gate is, why did you send us to those places?" McShane shook his head. "If you want to have any chance of stopping this, then you are going to have to figure it out on your own. Away from prying eyes and ears." "I don't understand why they don't just lock us up until this is over," Doggett replied. "Then they wouldn't have to worry about it." "You don't understand," McShane snapped back. His desperation was becoming more and more apparent in his expression. "It enjoys this little game. You have no idea how much it savored the experience of beating me at my own game, leading me into a trap and watching it snap in my face. It wants you to try to win. And so even as it makes sure you have no way out, it leaves you just enough room to maneuver." Monica slid a file folder across the table to McShane. "We have all the information regarding the victims here." She opened the folder. "Timothy Mathis was killed in Unami Park of what appears to be a rather extensively orchestrated dismemberment using what appears to be weapons like the ones you were carrying. Which we now understand was part of the deception to frame you for the murders. "Simone Benoit was killed in her home of an apparent suicide, after carving her face and arms with a razor blade. "Theresa McMillan's body was recovered from behind the house you took Agent Doggett to. We have no idea what could have done this, but her flesh appears to have been partially melted from her bones. Every indication is that she was alive and conscious through much of the experience." "The next body will be discovered under some kind of soil," McShane predicted. Doggett moved to question how McShane might know this, but Monica stopped him, shaking her head. "Can you at least tell us where?" Monica asked, after making sure Doggett would allow McShane to continue. McShane hesitated for a moment, his eyes going slightly blank, and then nodded. "Craig will take Agent Doggett to the place we think the body might be recovered. It's important that you see it for yourself. I think that it might be enough to give you some idea of what needs to be done later." "And what is Agent Reyes supposed to do in the meantime?" Doggett demanded. "I need to be able to slow it down as much as possible, to give you more room to operate, and maybe even to stop this entirely. When they begin the final rituals, I am going to have to choose between protecting my family and diverting all of my efforts to stopping it from completing those rituals. I'm asking you to go to the apartment and do everything you can to make sure that Kirsten and Rhiannon remain safe for as long as possible." "Of course," Monica said, realizing that there was more to it. "But you don't think that this is going to work, do you?" "No," McShane admitted. "It may all be a lost cause. In which case, they will come for you and my family soon after they believe they have won." He turned to Doggett. "Whatever Craig might have told you, there is no sure way to predict who they will come for first. With you and Craig operating together, and Agent Reyes with my family, we might be able to last. At least, for a little while." "I understand," Doggett said, turning towards the door. "But there's one thing I still don't understand. What does this thing want? I know you said something about it wanting to bring about the second coming of Christ, but what does it hope to accomplish with all of these rituals?" "It's a simple thing, once you realize it," McShane said with a rueful smile. "The addict that brought it into this world used a ritual to pull it in. Now it intends to do the exact same thing on a much larger scale. Intelligence is basically a matter of energy. A powerful, influential intelligence needs energy to act. "He's going to attempt, with this ritual, to open the gate and pull as many other intelligences as possible into this world, and consume them in the process." 12:05 PM There had not been much more to discuss with McShane after that conversation. Doggett knew that the only way to resolve this mess, whether he believed any of it or not, was to play the game. So now he was walking along a set of railroad tracks with Craig Walden as his navigator, leading him to the place that he would apparently find the next victim. He had asked Monica to explain the relevance of the song to him, but she had said only that it was an old Genesis song that described a man who finds his wife possessed as a part of the apocalypse. Beyond finding it slightly ironic, given the circumstances of the 1991 incident, Doggett was unimpressed. He had realized that their adversary was acting out of a certain level of caprice, and that the song had been nothing more than a guideline to be followed when it was convenient. In the end, it was no different than the ravings of the Zodiac Killer. Craig had met him at the apartment as he was dropping off Monica. He had given Monica a second weapon to carry, just in case. As before, they had been greeted by ravens in the yard, but they were fewer this time. Driving to a back street near the east side of Cranford, they left the car and began following the tracks to the northwest. A look at the skyline hinted that some bad weather, possibly severe, was on the way. "They call this place 'suicide'," Craig explained as they walked. "It's not far from here, a couple blocks. But I wanted to make sure that we could spot any trouble from a distance, and turn back if we have to." "Why do they call it 'suicide'?" Doggett asked. "Because if you go there at night, that's what you're committing," Craig said with his characteristic grin. "Daytime's usually safe. My bet is, they'll leave us be. We're not really much of a threat in their eyes." "That's what Thomas was telling me," Doggett replied dryly. "Do you have any idea what this is supposed to tell me?" "Thomas never told me the entire idea behind what they were doing," Craig admitted. "I think he was worried that I might not be able to resist if that thing tried to get into my head. I don't blame him, but it does make this a little more difficult." "I bet," Doggett muttered. He was beginning to think that maybe McShane was enjoying the game as much as the entity they were trying to combat. Craig was right; it was not long before they were standing within a few hundred feet of the place they were supposed to find. It was essentially an old overpass cutting across the railway lines, but the construction of more than one line over time had resulted in an uneven arrangement below the road. Two railroad tracks ran next to one another, with one sitting about ten feet above the other. Each side had a thick layer of concrete that ran from the roadway above down to the level of the tracks below. The slope of the concrete was extreme, and one could easily see how the relative seclusion of the space as well as the inherent dangers made it a perfect gathering place. Craig pointed to the larger side, which was adorned with a wide array of graffiti and ritualistic symbols. "That's the place. You can see the crown symbols from here, like at Unami. There might be something else we can find. Let's go." Doggett followed him onto the concrete, at which point he had to stand with his feet offset, holding himself up with the strength in his calves and hips. The slope of the concrete was severe enough to cause serious injury with a single slip. Looking for an easier way to get to the top of the slope, where there was a wall with some form of writing, he noticed a small protrusion jutting out of the smoothness of gray. "What is that?" "Sewer drain," Craig called out from higher up the slope. "We may want to take a look at that. But I think you should see this first." It took a few minutes for Doggett to join the younger man, but a few minutes later, he was staring at the same patch of painted wall. "Looks like a crown all right," he said, catching his breath. "But what is the rest of it?" "The crown looks like it's been painted over another symbol," Craig said, tracing his finger over that part. "Looks like some kind of triangle, with lines running from the three angles to the center." "Just like Unami," Doggett observed. "The paths came in at three points, and at the very center, there was the pit where Timothy Mathis was killed." "There's something to that, I think," Craig said, looking at Doggett. "Whoever it was that pulled this thing into our world, he knew just enough to get into real trouble. Little ritualistic things, items and information that he put together in strange ways. One of those things was the idea of three as a mystical number." "I've heard of that," Doggett remarked. "But besides the triangle, where does that come into play?" "The timing of the rituals themselves," Craig replied. "The first ritual was sometime in early 1973, probably February. We say that because the murders in Clark were all in May 1982, or 111 months later. And 111 months after that was August 1991, when they tried to kill Kirsten to complete the earlier ritual." "And November 2000 is 111 months after that," Doggett said, seeing the progression. "Odd way to bring three into it." "Who can predict the actions of the insane?" Craig observed. "They tend to do things very methodically, but the reasons for those actions never seem to make sense." He pointed to some other copies of the same symbol along the wall. "This seems to be the symbol they consider the most important." He reached into the pocket of his jacket, pulling out a digital camera. "This will make it easier than trying to keep it in your head." He carefully stepped back onto the slope, and began taking pictures of the wall where the symbol was prominently displayed. In the meantime, Doggett slowly made his way over to the sewer drain, where he could see a number of other symbols sprayed onto the concrete around the protrusion. As he approached the drain, he saw that they were crosses rendered in crimson. He quickly dismissed the notion that they were drawn in blood; the color would have turned to a deep brown by now. But looking at the drain itself, he noticed that there was a name in faded red painted on its concrete lip. "Hey, Craig," he called, and the younger man looked towards him. "Your sister's name is painted on this. Looks like you were right about this place." "She might have even started the practice of coming here," Craig mentioned casually. He had obviously had many years to come to grips with his sister's former life. Doggett was inspecting the drain for signs of recent usage when he was caught in the eyes by the flash of the digital camera. "Do you have to take my picture right now?" "I'm not," Craig replied, and the tone of his voice made Doggett look up. Craig was pointing to something above his head, and Doggett turned. He didn't like what he saw. Painted in red, high above the ground on one of the supports running along the underside of the overpass, was a list of names. Four of them were blotted out, barely visible: Timothy, Simone, Theresa, David. But what hit home were the two remaining names that were still waiting to be struck out: Thomas and Kirsten. Realization hit him right between the eyes, and he had to take hold of the side of the drain with his hands to keep his balance. One hand slipped, and he struggled to keep himself from sliding along the concrete. Once steady, he looked at his hand, and recognized the fresh soil that was smeared there. Looking down at the drain, he cried out, "I think we found David." "Yeah," Craig said, as he slid down to where Doggett was pressed against the protrusion. "And it looks like I was wrong. They're going to take out Thomas first, leaving the rest of us a lot more vulnerable. Here." He pressed something into Doggett's free hand. Recognizing the grip, he looked down at the Ka-Bar blade with appreciation. "Expecting company?" "They're already here," Craig observed. "I have to say, I'm glad you were a Marine, John, because we are severely outnumbered." Coming from the other side of the tracks were a number of young people, some obviously in their teens. Several of them were brandishing knives; some meant for combat, some merely kitchen appliances. But others were a bit older, holding steel pipes and heavier blunt objects. A quick look over his shoulder confirmed that there were two other groups closing in on either side of the concrete slope on their side of the tracks. Another quick scan confirmed that there were no guns in sight. "These are just kids," Doggett said, making sure his gun was secure. "I'm not going to kill kids, Craig." "I'm not inclined to, either," Craig replied, "but we have to get out of here and get back to the car. That means we might have to slow them down a bit." He turned to Doggett, gestured towards the direction opposite the way they came. "They won't expect us to make for the north, with the police station in the other direction. You do know what I mean, right?" "Yeah," Doggett said, pushing himself carefully to his feet, transferring the Ka-Bar to his other hand. "It means this is just a distraction. They want to keep us busy. "It means they're already making their move on Thomas." 2:28 PM From the vantage point of his cell, he was able to watch the darkening sky as a storm began its slow and methodical march from the northeast. The rain a few days before had been a harbinger of what was to come, though it was unlikely that many of the players in the current game had paid much attention to the weather. There were far too many other distractions to worry over. At the same time, from a vantage point high above the town, he watched as the enemy stretched forth its hand and sent its troops on yet another mission of death. But this time, the pattern was more organized, more direct. The time had apparently come to eliminate any and all threats. Even as he saw the shapes of his enemy's soldiers moving on his home, moving to take away everything that he held dear, he knew that his own life would soon be threatened. He didn't know exactly when it would happen, but when Officer Davis appeared on the other side of the bars, an intricately worked blade in hand, Thomas knew the time had come. "They gave me a weapon that looks a lot like yours," Davis said, holding up the hilt of the dagger so Thomas could see it clearly. "The fed said it herself. Only an expert could tell the difference between your weapons and ours. So when they discover you dead, and I say that I had to kill you in self-defense with your own knife, well...in the new order, who is going to be around to question it?" Thomas stood as Davis opened the door to his cell, shifting weight into the right balance for his own defense. Without a weapon of his own, he would have to use his abilities to the fullest. His enemy would be able to keep him out, but only by loosing its control over the dozens of others involved in their own attacks. Still, he had learned long ago that the first rule of fighting with knives was simple and straightforward: sooner or later, you would be cut, and you would bleed. Davis attacked with a furious twist of strikes and feints that would have been impossible to follow, if Thomas had not learned long ago to reach outside of himself, to see with eyes that were not his own. To feel the flows of energy and note its release, to anticipate its movement, and thus, the movement of the matter that contained it. Thomas' forearms struck against Davis' own, blocking the advance of the blade in the process. The trick was to parry and reflexively retreat, removing the flesh of the arm from the reverse strike of the blade's edge. Neither of the combatants was foolish enough to think that this would be the extent of their struggle. Before long, Davis was expertly switching the blade from hand to hand, striking out with a kick and then lashing out, leaving Thomas to advance and retreat, to parry and defend, in a constant array of improvised martial ballet. The first strike came without a hint of reaction, as the blade slid along the outer edge of Thomas' left hand. It did not matter. Thomas noted the slightest slowing of Davis' movements, as the blade draw into his flesh and encountered the slightest degree of friction. In less time than it took for the skin on his hand to part, that same hand crossed through the air and crushed Davis' left arm against the metal bars of the open cell door, shattering the bone. Davis was unable to control his reaction to the same degree, and he hesitated, leaving himself vulnerable. Thomas closed the space between them, allowing his left shoulder to advance into striking distance in the same motion. It was a sacrifice that had to be made, if the struggle was to end. He felt the blade sink deeply into the muscle of his upper left arm, but by then he had struck hard under Davis' chin, sending him flying out into the hallway, his head cracking against the concrete wall. Blood trickled down the whiteness of the wall, but Davis came to his feet quickly, his arm hanging limply and oddly at his side. "You think this shell means anything to me?" Davis said, and it was obvious that it was the enemy speaking now. "You have only your own body, your own soul, to consider when this knife slides in your chest. But every wound you inflict, every bone you break...it happens to a man that has no control over his own actions." Davis stepped away from the open cell, gesturing Thomas forward. "I could leave him now, you know. Leave him unaware of all that I have done in his place, able only to remember the moment that you struck out against him. Leave him in agony with no conception of why he had been beaten and left crippled." It was his one weakness, and even though he knew it, it still cut him to the core more completely and fatally than any wound that dagger might inflict. His enemy was a creature of formless sentience, with no concern for the pain and suffering of those who only knew the ways of the flesh. But he had been born like every other human, had learned their instincts. And he could not forget the fact that Davis, the man that had been before the darkness had crushed in on him, had not chosen to do the things he had come to do. Still, everything that Davis had ever been and ever would be would endure in the fullness of the commonality of all life. Those memories might never recover enough of their own connectivity to remain intact and active and sentient, but they would remain. Others would know who he was, and they would know what he had endured. And his private hell would be a testimony. All of that rushed through his thoughts in an instant, and yet it was long enough for the enemy to launch forward, to strike out and rip the blade across Thomas' chest. Thomas faltered slightly, the movement causing a matching pain in his arm. Another slash tore into his stomach. He locked his eyes with Davis, saw the blazing intensity of the brightest blue reaching out for him, and he pushed with the fullest extent of his awareness to quench it. Davis stumbled in mid-stroke, his balance imperfect, and Thomas took that moment to thrust himself at Davis with all of his strength. They soared into the far wall, and Thomas felt something give inside his chest as two of his ribs were crushed by the impact. But he did not feel the blade rip into his flesh, and so he stepped back quickly, forcing his right arm into a defensive posture. But just as quickly, he realized what had happened, the depth of his mistake. The hilt of the dark blade protruded from Davis' chest. But Davis' expression was not one of shock or agony. It was one of triumph and exaltation. "You see? One way or another, my purpose will be served," Davis said, as he slid to the floor. Still, there was that grin plastered across his face. "Did you think it mattered which of us died here? All that mattered was place and the time. Better that I had been given the opportunity to kill you as I had intended, true." Davis coughed, and then smiled back up at Thomas, blood on his lips. "666 is no longer below," he sang gruffly, "he's digging out the marrow from your backbone." He shook his head, the grin lessening, the eyes not blazing so brightly. "This renders the ritual imperfect. But then, all will still fall as I wish." Thomas did not need to hear more. He understood already. It had been meant for him to die here, for his release of energy and power at the moment of death to provide another focal point for the larger ritual. But with Davis' death, the result was the same. Any hopes he might have harbored to prevent the endgame had been thoroughly dashed. The toll of the brief but frenetic struggle began to wear on him, and he slumped against the wall, biting back the pain of his wounds. In the back of his mind, he recognized that his control had slipped, and that he was no longer able to protect his loved ones. He sent out a pulse of love to Kirsten and Rhiannon, and then slid to the floor unconscious. Monica was flipping through a book by Morgan Llewellyn when she heard Kirsten pull in a harsh breath, her eyes wide. In the same moment, Rhiannon cried out from upstairs. "What?" Monica said, tossing the book onto the nearest piece of furniture. "What is it?" "It's Thomas," she said, shaking her head as if trying to clear it. "He's pulled away." She looked at Monica in horror. "They've tried to kill him. They tried to kill Thomas, and now they're coming f-" Her words were lost as the front windows shattered, a hail of stones and debris forcing them to the ground for safety. Monica drew her weapon on instinct, glancing up to get a sense of the threat. At least two figures stood outside of the broken windows, their faces expressionless, their eyes a brilliant blue. "Are you all right?" she asked, looking to Kirsten. When Kirsten failed to respond, she slapped her hard on the leg. "Are you all right!" "Yes, yes," Kirsten answered, wiping a trace of blood from her mouth where a shard of glass had torn her lip. She looked towards the stairs. "Rhiannon!" Monica understood immediately. "What about you?" She looked out at the faces of the young assassins coming for them. "If this is how it has to end, then this is how it ends. I might have been the one that pulled them into this, when I was still....well, fitting that they should get the chance to pay me back for it." She held out her hand. Monica considered for a moment, then handed her the gun. "Are you sure?" Kirsten nodded, her eyes pleading for Monica to see to her daughter's safety. "Go. I know you have another weapon. Use it to protect Rhiannon as long as you can." She took a deep breath, and then leaned closer. "Make sure they don't take her. Make sure of it, you understand? If it comes down to it...please, promise me..." The windows in the back of the apartment shattered as more people began throwing chunks of stone and earth, forcing their way in. Monica was oddly struck by the thought of low-budget zombie films of her childhood, and forced the image out of her mind. More than likely, these were law enforcement officers, and they would be coldly efficient in using their training to deal with the situation. "Kirsten, you can't ask me to-" Upstairs, Rhiannon's screaming grew louder as people began ramming the doors. Kirsten wiped her tearing eyes with the back of her hand. "Damn it, just promise!" "All right," Monica said finally, realizing that the chances were good that she would have to follow through. "I won't let them do to Rhiannon what they did to you." Kirsten nodded, said a quick prayer under her breath, and then stood, holding the gun in both hands, taking careful aim at a man bursting through the door. The gun fired once, tossing the man back into the doorway, momentarily blocking the passage of another. Monica took that opportunity to pull her reserve weapon from the small of her back, running up the stairs. Their adversary seemed to be unable to do more than use its thralls in the most basic way, forced to use its resources in the efforts to make the rest of the populace coming in and out of the area disregard what was happening. Still, sheer numbers would be more than enough to win the day, as soon they were forced to defend against more people than they could wound and incapacitate. Running into the nursery, Monica went directly to the crib and pulled Rhiannon into her arms, as several more shots rang out from below. There was a loud crash as the lock on the back door failed, and over the shouting and screaming, the shots became more furious. Monica ran into the most secure corner she could find, as far away from any windows on the second floor, and held Rhiannon tightly against her, her weapon at arm's length pointed at the doorway to the room. All the while, the child screamed at the top of her lungs, shuddering with each report of the gun below, until Monica could no longer tell where the screams were coming from. As the sound of gunfire came closer, as Kirsten attempted to last that much longer by forcing them to come up the stairs one or two at a time, Monica closed her eyes, swallowed past the dryness in her throat, and prepared for the end. Doggett ducked yet another poorly executed swing of the steel rod, struggling to keep his balance. They had used the irregular shape of the sewer drain to maintain their ground to this point, but it was becoming more and more difficult to hold their ground without taking a hard shot or badly wounding one of those attacking. He knew that if something didn't break soon, he would have to kill somebody. And that was something he desperately wanted to avoid. "Agent Doggett!" Craig cried out, as he slashed out at yet another attacker. "We need to get out of here! They've already made their move." "Thomas?" Doggett gasped, trying to catch his breath. "He pulled back a while ago," Craig confirmed, as he adjusting his stance to stay on his feet. His opponent cried out as he tumbled down the concrete. "He might be dead. I'm not sure I would know." He looked at Doggett with regret. "They're likely to have started moving on the others by now." Doggett let that sink in for a moment. It was impossible to believe that this case, his first damned case on the X-Files on his own, would be his last. "I think we could still make it out on the north side." Craig looked over his shoulder, saw the same chance. "Looks like they're doing it on purpose." He dodged another swing at his head, and then grunted as he took a hard shot to the side. "Whatever we do, damn it, it better be soon!" Doggett looked down the concrete embankment, and then back to the north. "Looks like we do this the hard way." Craig ducked another attack, and looked at Doggett with confusion. "What?" Doggett pulled Craig off balance, sending the younger man to his knees. "When we hit the bottom," he said, as they began to tumble, "if you can stand, get up and run for it!" Soon they were falling uncontrollably, arms and legs ripping across the concrete as they attempted to control their descent. The tactic managed to deflect further attacks, but the searing pain of every crushing contact with the embankment was a more than high enough price to pay. Before long, they let go of any attempt to control their motion, and did everything they could to keep themselves intact the entire way down. Within seconds, it was over, and Doggett struggled to his feet, ignoring the way his clothes were now sticking moistly to his legs and arms. He stumbled over to where Craig was resting on his hands and knees, gasping for breath. Pulling him up, Doggett looked at the crowd of assailants now running down the slope towards them, and pointed towards the only clear way out. "Come on," he grunted, as Craig found a way past the pain and began running along beside him. "Trap," Craig gasped. "Doesn't matter," Doggett shot back. They made it out from under the overpass, and ran for more public ground. "Remember what Thomas said. This thing wants to mess with us, play with our heads before it's done." Noting that their opponents were not following them, Craig slowed and shook his head. "Makes no sense. Why leave us alive, if they've already started killing the others?" "We don't know that," Doggett replied, his expression ensuring no argument. "We have to see if they managed to get out, or somehow last until we get there." "The apartment?" Craig said as they came to the road, and he tried to determine their location. "You said Thomas stopped contacting you," Doggett answered, not caring how it sounded any more. "Dead or not, he'll be no help. We need to get to the others." Craig nodded his agreement, and they started running as best they could. He had no idea how long he was out, but he was aware that much had happened in a short time. He had lost a great deal of blood from the wounds to his chest, arm, and abdomen. There was a dryness in the back of his throat, and the clammy feeling that ran over his skin suggested he was suffering from shock. Still, he slowly forced himself to his feet, reaching out with his perception. They had stormed the apartment after he had fallen unconscious, a sloppy move on the enemy's part. His lack of concentration prevented him from discovering more. A rush of fear came over him, as he thought about what might be happening to his family. Leaning against the wall at first, and then stumbling to the nearest doorway, Thomas noticed that the police station was empty. A realization began to dawn on him. In order to conduct the final parts of the ritual, the enemy would have to limit the extent of outside interference. That would require a massive amount of effort, if it was done one mind at a time. No, it was far more likely that the local law enforcement was being used to stage accidents and divert traffic out of the critical areas. That meant that his survival had not been a matter of concern. The enemy knew he had not been killed, and yet, none of the others under its control had finished him off. It had gotten what it needed, and the rest was merely a detail. As he came to the ground floor, and forced himself to make it as far as the lobby before stopping to rest, he noticed that the approaching storm was nearly upon them. The first hint of rain was in the air. Pushing past the shock and trauma towards some semblance of clarity, he turned away from the lobby towards the back of the building. After all, the enemy was not the only one requiring a degree of secrecy. For the first few moments after the gunfire stopped, Monica remained in position, her finger pulsing lightly on the trigger, waiting for the first of the assailants to rush into the room. Rhiannon's voice had gone hoarse from the constant screaming, and now the child was sobbing uncontrollably, head nestled against Monica's chest. "All right, little one," Monica said, using her free hand to stroke the child's hair. "It's all right. Everything will be OK." When the last sounds of disturbance had long since passed into silence, Monica placed her gun on the floor and held Rhiannon close, until the child calmed slightly. The little girl was still shaking and frightened, but things were improving. There was a noise downstairs, the sound of voices calling. She reached for the gun at first, and then heard a familiar voice calling up the stairwell. Rhiannon tensed, but Monica did her best to calm the child as she called out. "John! We're up here!" She slid her gun into her shoulder holster, and adjusted Rhiannon so the toddler was resting on one hip as she stood. "I have Rhiannon!" The door opened, and John ran in, looking like he had been beaten badly. She saw Craig kneeling down behind him, checking a body that was lying in the stairwell. The scent of fresh blood lingered in the air. "Are you two all right?" John asked, looking her over. "We're fine," Monica answered, and then she held Rhiannon close. "She's afraid and a bit stunned, but they never got to her." "I checked the bodies," Craig said from the top of the stairs. "Kirsten's not here." "That list," John said, letting out a deep breath. "They took her for the final ritual. Wherever that gate is." Craig looked slightly stunned for a moment, and then nodded. "What now?" "We have to get Rhiannon somewhere safe," Monica said before John could answer. "We won't be able to do anything until we take care of her. And we're not likely to have much time. People are going to start noticing what's happened sooner or later." "Not really," Craig called over his shoulder. "The roads are being blocked off. No outsiders getting through. Only the locals would notice, but they're...well, not noticing, anyway." "We'll try the hotel," John suggested. When Monica started to object, he stopped her with a look. "It's the most likely place we'll find outsiders now, people that haven't been affected by all of this. I'm sure we'll be able to find someone willing to keep an eye on her if we make sure they understand it's part of a federal investigation." "I can make sure it's safe," Craig said. When John looked at him for an explanation, he smirked. "I have learned a few things from Thomas." "All right, it's settled," John said. "We go back to the hotel, take care of the arrangements for Rhiannon, and then try to figure out where they would have taken Kirsten. "And then we try to figure out how the hell we're supposed to stop this thing." Chapter Six November 30, 2000 Rain beat against the same glass windows that Doggett had been staring out of, hours before. Truth be told, it felt like days had passed. Part of it was the lack of sleep, he knew. The exhaustion cast everything in a slight haze, as though he were viewing the world through a filter. But it was more than that. There was a palpable energy all around them, as if something were reaching out and drawing them into some unknown whirlpool. In the back of his mind, he could hear himself saying that it was the approaching ritual, the drawing of energy into the final victim, an act designed to throw the gate wide. But he was less than inclined to listen to that part of himself. Monica stood by the window, staring into the driving rain, her hands regularly shuffling into her pockets as if searching for some anchor or foundation. It was an illusion, of course, her unconscious desire for another cigarette, something to relieve the tension that had been building without break over the last couple days. He found it strangely comforting that the more open-minded of the two of them was the one craving solace in a vice. It made the experience less daunting, somehow. Craig had taken Rhiannon, promising to find someone to watch over her. The thought of giving the child to a stranger's care, especially given the circumstances, made him extremely uneasy. All of his memories and experience told him that it was asking for trouble, that there was a very good chance that she would be abducted or seriously hurt. And yet, his instincts, those gut reactions that had been a reliable tool for years upon years, told him that Craig could see to her safety. It was that feeling of acceptance in the abilities that Craig professed to possess that made him the most uneasy, because it was proof positive that he was altogether too close to believing that what he had been told was true. He looked at Monica again, concerned by the lines of worry creasing her forehead, surrounding her eyes. "How are you doing?" She let out a long sigh, and then shook her head. "I'll tell you, John, I've been in some serious situations, some real hair-raisers. But this ranks up there with the worst of them." Her eyes met his, and he could see the conflict within. "I agreed to kill a child, John. Blow her brains out, rather than let people...hell, law enforcement, John! I was ready to kill a little kid, not much more than a baby, just to keep her from whatever it is they would have done." Doggett was still for a moment, trying to think of the right thing to say. After a few long moments, he realized that there was likely no such thing as the right thing to say in these moments. "Monica, I'm not going to pretend to understand what that was like. I'm not even sure I know what I would have done in your place. But from what you told me, there was a lot of reason to think that they wanted all of you dead, or worse. Under those circumstances..." He left it at that, unable to think of what more to say. After all, he had been forced to watch Theresa McMillan walk to her own death, forced by circumstances not to act. Was it really so different? "I know, John, I know," Monica murmured. She tried to crack a smile. "Hey, turned out all right, huh? At least, as far as that part's concerned." She turned back towards the window, the pelting rain. "They have Kirsten again, and I have to think that her life is in serious jeopardy." Doggett nodded, and then took a couple hesitant steps closer. "Do you have any...I mean, what are your..." "Am I getting any feelings about all of this?" Monica asked with amusement. Her smile became slightly more genuine. "Yeah," he replied, feeling less certain about the question. Monica shrugged. "I get this feeling like we're all being tapped like some kind of battery, like something is slowly taking everything we are, drawing it into some deep, dark hole where it can never came back from. Nothing more specific than that. Why?" "The way I see it, we can take all the help we can get," he said with a wry grin. He considered telling her his own similar suspicions, but thought better of it. The conflict must have been apparent in his eyes, because Monica turned towards him, regarding him closely. "How are you, though? There's been a lot that we've had to digest since you started working on this. A lot of things we've had to take on faith. Are you all right about all of this?" Now it was Doggett's turn to let out a long sigh. "I don't know. I told you a few weeks ago that I can't let myself believe in this kind of thing, because it would mean...it would prove that I had failed to do what a parent, what a father, should do. Has to do." He slumped into the nearest chair, turning towards the downpour. "But how can I deny what we've seen and heard here? The way Thomas knew things, seemed to talk to people while in that cell. All of the science that Craig talked about, the way things are connected. The gifts these people use so casually." Monica leaned against the table, looking down at him with sympathy. "I know I've talked to you about gifts, about ways of seeing things a little differently. I have the feeling I'm not the only one who's said that lately, either." "No," he said, thinking to a recent conversation, to the woman he had met in Boulder. "It seems to be a recurring theme in the conversations I've had lately." He shook his head. "None of that seems to rank next to this, though. Thomas, even Craig...they just do these things, as though it's the most natural thing in the world." "Maybe for them, it is," Monica observed. "Remember what they said about ancestry. There are a lot of ancient cultures that believe in magic, in forces and influences that we can't see. I happen to believe in a lot of that." She shrugged. "Maybe 'New Age' is the wrong term for it." "Magic," Doggett muttered. "Say it like that, and it's suddenly a lot harder to take seriously." "It's just a word, a label," Monica reminded him. "If Craig's scientific proof turns out to be as valid as it sounds, and then we have a scientific name to attach to it all, does that make it suddenly more plausible? More acceptable or respectable?" "I guess not," Doggett said, with a rueful smile. "But then again, to be honest, I'd rather it turned out to be a bunch of crap." "Yeah, I suppose that would be easier," Monica agreed, though her tone was less sure. Knowing that the conversation was unlikely to continue, she turned to the table, picking up the Genesis CD that she had borrowed from McShane's apartment. "We should listen to the song. Might explain a few things." She looked at the cover, the odd image of the fox with a woman's body. Odd, how the image was so similar to the cover of the de Lint book that she had seen. There appeared to be connections everywhere, just under the surface. Doggett rolled his eyes. "I still don't see the point." Monica grinned. "You know as well as I do that it's important to get all the information we can. Besides, it might give us some insight into what this thing is expecting out of this ritual." Doggett relented. "What's the song called again?" "It's called Supper's Ready," Monica answered, pointing to the song list on the back of the jewel case. There was a knock at the door, and before either of them could react, Craig walked in with a grin. "All clear. Rhiannon's with some nice little old couple. They agreed to stick around for the night until this is all over. One way or another." Noticing that the younger man had a portable radio in one hand, Doggett raised an eyebrow. "Where did you get the radio? And for that matter, how did you convince them to watch Rhiannon?" "I asked to borrow it," Craig said with a shrug. "They said OK. As for why they were willing to watch the kid?" He smiled widely. "They seem to be under the impression that they are her grandparents. As long as she's there, she'll do the rest. If we win this thing, we'll be able to get her in the morning, and they'll never know the difference. If we lose, well, it's not likely that it will matter for very long, because it won't take long for it to find her then." He saw Monica's frown, and imagined that it was a reflection of his own. That was another difference in the way that Thomas and Craig regarded their gifts. Unlike Monica or Mo Dannah, the woman he had recently met with similar notions, Thomas and his family used their gifts with little or no remorse for the way it affected others. Perhaps that was born of the circumstances they had found themselves in, but perhaps it was also a matter of what kind of people they were. How sure could they be that Thomas was any better than the unknown entity that they were helping him fight? In the end, as with so many things about this case, it came down to a matter of trust. "All right," he said finally, giving Monica a glance that asked her to leave it be. "Let's listen to this song. Then we need to get a map and try to figure out where this gate of yours is supposed to be." Craig pulled a tattered map out of his jacket. "They let me borrow this too. Go figure..." About twenty minutes later, Doggett stood staring at the portable radio, a look of bewilderment in his eyes. He had spent the first few minutes helping put up the map, marking it with the original murders in the Willow Farm development in 1982. The marks seemed to spiral inward around some central point in the development. By the time the last murder had been marked on the map, however, the song had begun to get very, very strange. He spent the next ten minutes trying to figure out what kind of drugs the band had been on at the time they had written the thing. "That's Genesis?" he asked again, as if he had missed the answer before. "I mean, really, the last time I checked, they played some pretty nice music. Normal music. You know, Phil Collins, 'Invisible Touch', 'In Too Deep'?" He pointed to the radio. "I have no idea what the hell that was." "Great ending, though, you gotta admit," Craig said, his usual grin wide on his face. "Right," Doggett said without conviction. He shook his head. "OK, anyone want to tell me what that was supposed to be about?" Monica had the liner notes open, and she tapped the lyrics thoughtfully. "Basically, it's a song about a man whose wife becomes possessed one night, and that leads to the coming of the apocalypse. I'm not going to try to follow the story, though. That's not really the point. It's the imagery that seems to be important here." She started reading the lyrics, as if to remind them of what they had heard. Walking across the sitting-room, I turn the television off Sitting beside you, I look into your eyes As the sound of motor cars fades in the night time I swear I saw your face change, it didn't seem quite right And it's hello babe with your guardian eyes so blue! Hey, my baby don't you know our love is true? Coming closer with our eyes, a distance falls around our bodies Out in the garden, the moon seems very bright Six saintly shrouded men move across the lawn slowly The seventh walks in front with a cross held high in hand And it's hello babe your supper's waiting for you! Hey my baby, don't you know our love is true? I've been so far from here Far from your warm arms It's good to feel you again It's been a long, long time. Hasn't it? I know a farmer who looks after the farm With water clear, he cares for all his harvest I know a fireman who looks after the fire You, can't you see he's fooled you all? Yes, he's here again, can't you see he's fooled you all? Share his peace, sign the lease He's a supersonic scientist He's the guaranteed eternal sanctuary man Look, look into my mouth he cries! And all the children lost down many paths I bet my life you'll walk inside Hand in hand Gland in gland With a spoonful of miracle He's the guaranteed eternal sanctuary man We will rock you, rock you little snake We will keep you snug and warm Monica paused in her recital for a moment. "The next part is captioned as Ikhnaton and Itsacon and Their Band of Merry Men. Remember the manager's office, back in '82?" Then she continued: Wearing feeling on our faces when faces took a rest We walked across the field to see the children of the West But we saw a host of dark skinned warriors standing still below the ground Waiting for battle! The fight's begun, they've been released Killing foe for peace...bang, bang, bang. Bang, bang, bang. And they're giving me a wonderful potion 'Cos I cannot contain my emotion And even though I'm feeling good Something tells me I'd better activate my prayer capsule Today's a day to celebrate, the foe have met their fate The order for rejoicing and dancing has come from our warlord Wandering through the chaos the battle has left We climb upon the mountain of human flesh To a plateau of green grass, and green trees full of life A young figure sits still by the pool He's been stamped human bacon by some butchery tool. (he is you) Social security took care of this lad We watch in reverence, as Narcissus is turned to a flower A flower? "This part's called Willow Farm," Monica added before resuming: If you go down to Willow Farm to look for butterflies, flutterbyes, gutterflies Open your eyes, it's full of surprise, everyone lies like the fox on the rocks and the musical box. Oh, there's mum & dad, and good and bad and everyone's happy to be here. There's Winston Churchill dressed in drag he used to be a British flag, plastic bag, what a drag! The frog was a prince, the prince was a brick, the brick was an egg, and the egg was a bird (Fly away you sweet little thing ) Hadn't you heard? (They're going to change you into a human being!) Yes, we're happy as fish and gorgeous as geese and wonderfully clean in the morning! We've got everything, we're growing everything We've got some in We've got some out We've got some wild things floating about! Everyone, we're changing everyone You name them all We've had them here And the real stars are still to appear! All change! Feel your body melt Mum to mud to mad to Dad Dad diddley office, Dad diddley office You're all full of ball Dad to dam to dum to Mum Mum diddley washing, Mum diddley washing You're all full of ball Let me hear your lies, we're living this up to the eyes Momma I want you now! And as you listen to my voice To look for hidden doors, tidy floors, more applause You've been here all the time Like it or not, like what you got You're under the soil (the soil, the soil, the soil) Yes, deep in the soil (the soil, the soil, the soil) So we'll end with a whistle and end with a bang and all of us fit in our places. "This next part is called Apocalypose in 9/8, referring to the time signature. But listen to the imagery." With the guards of Magog swarming around The Pied Piper takes his children underground. The Dragon's coming out of the sea with the Shimmering silver head of wisdom looking at me He brings down the fire from the skies You can tell he's doing well by the look of human eyes You'd better not compromise It won't be easy 666 is no longer below He's digging out the marrow in your backbone And the seven trumpets blowing sweet rock and roll Gonna blow right down inside your soul Pythagoras with the looking glass reflects the full moon In blood, he's writing the lyrics of a brand new tune And it's hey babe, with your guardian eyes so blue! Hey my baby, don't you know our love is true? I've been so far from here, Far from your loving arms, Now I'm back again, and baby it's going to work out fine "And now the last part," Monica concluded: Can't you feel our souls ignite? Shedding ever changing colors in the darkness of the fading night Like the river joins the ocean, as the germ in the seed grows We have finally been freed to get back home There's an angel standing in the sun, and he's crying with a loud voice "This is the supper of the mighty one," Lord of Lords, King of Kings Has returned to take his children home To take them to the new Jerusalem! "And that's it," Monica said, tossing the liner notes onto the table. "See?" Doggett remarked. "No wonder this thing went insane." "It starts off with the woman's eyes turning blue without warning, a signal of her possession," Craig began, ignoring Doggett's comment. "That tracks with what the entity does with the people it controls and possesses. Then there is the part about the 'guaranteed eternal sanctuary man'. It promises people that it can take them into the new world it creates and put them into positions of favor and influence." "Then comes the part where there are references to the 'children of the West', who appear to be the favored children of God," Monica added. "Followed by a part where there is a figure looking into a pool of water, and he has been stamped 'Human Bacon', by a 'butchery tool'." "The symbols and words that were found in the development manager's office in 1982 are found in the part before that, in the part about the children" Craig pointed out. "And there was something after that, right before the 'human bacon' reference," Doggett said, thinking back. "Something about a mountain of human flesh and body parts." He walked up to the map, found Unami Park. He stuck a pin there. "Timothy Mathis. He was dismembered, like the song suggests." "Right after that, Simone Benoit killed herself and left the message 'Human Bacon' on the mirror, in her own blood," Monica observed. She found the location of the Benoit house on the map, and placed a mark there. "Close by. But both of these are pretty far from Clark." "I had a hard time keeping track after that part," Doggett confessed. "After seeing the person stamped 'Human Bacon'," Monica resumed, "the man finds himself in a place called 'Willow Farm'." "Like the development," Doggett said, pointing to the location of the 1982 murders. "That seems wrong. The murders were following the order of events in the song up until this point." "True," Monica agreed. "But that was a place, as far as the song is concerned, where animals were changing into human beings, and things were being transformed. That fits the overall picture." "The next murder was at the ranch house," Craig said, pointing it out on the map. "That's a lot closer to Clark, almost on the border between Clark and Cranford." "Theresa McMillan was killed by a means that made her flesh melt in some way we can't explain," Monica reminded them. "And the second part of the 'Willow Farm' section of the song talks about feeling your body melt." "And then it says something about being 'under the soil'," Doggett recalled. "That would have been David, at that place called Suicide." Craig marked it on the map, just north of the police station in Cranford. "This is pretty far away from the other places, on the other side of Cranford from Clark." "Where is the police station?" Doggett asked, tracing out the main roads in the center of the town on the map. "Right about here?" "Yeah," Craig said, and Doggett marked it. "Why?" "Next part of the song seems to be about the man facing the coming of the devil," Monica said, before Doggett could answer. "The lyrics described 'digging out the marrow in your backbone'. Thomas was supposed to be the next one on the list, and if that's the case..." "Then he would have been the one facing the darkness," Craig reasoned. "And apparently losing." They were silent for a moment, staring at the map. The police station and Suicide were much further north than the other murder sites. Willow Farm and the ranch house were south and to the east, while Unami Park and the Benoit residence were south and to the west. There seemed to be little or no connection between the sites beyond the song that suggested a rationale behind it all. "Logic would tell us that the killer, if he were following the song's progression, would have killed someone in the development before killing Theresa," Doggett said finally. "But there seems to have been no murder there recently. Just the murders in 1982." "And the pattern of murders doesn't make much sense," Craig added, shaking his head. "The murders in '82 fit a definite pattern. They started near the outside and began to spiral inward." "Do you know where Thomas and his parents lived when they were there?" Monica asked. "Right near the center," Craig answered. Monica looked at the marks for the 1982 murders closely, and then shook her head. "Something doesn't make sense there. I can see why it looks like a spiral, because it starts with this murder in the southwest corner, then comes over here to the east, then up here off north, back to the southwest but closer to the center, and then..." She stopped, titling her head oddly. Then she turned to Craig. "You mentioned some kind of symbol that you and Agent Doggett found at Suicide. Did you manage to get anything off the digital camera?" "Nope," Craig said, shaking his head. "It was wrecked when we took a dive on that concrete. But I think I can sketch it out." He took a notepad from the table, and quickly sketched out the symbol. Monica looked it over, and then pointed to the map. "Look at the pattern that the murders in 1982 seemed to follow. Instead of a spiral, think in terms of a triangle." She pointed to the first three murders. "What if we were to connect these points?" She took the pencil from Craig's hand, and sketched in the lines. "What you get is something very close to an equilateral triangle." "I see what you mean," Doggett said, pointing to the symbol on the pad. "The one they use has lines going from the points to the center." He took the pencil and sketched in the lines. The other three marks for the remaining murders sat squarely on the lines, with the lines coming together at a point directly over the place Craig had told them had been the McShane home. "The other three murders also make a rough equilateral triangle," Monica noted. "It's almost like they serve as a focus, drawing towards the center." "That's where the gate must have been," Craig said, his voice full of excitement. "Thomas said it moved. If it was right on top of his house at the time, when the energies were coming together....no wonder it only took the slightest contact to wake Thomas up." "Makes sense," Monica agreed. She tapped the map over the lines they had drawn. "That fits the ritual site in Unami Park, the way the space was defined by the three paths and the pit in the center." She looked at the map again. "And that begins to explain the recent murders." She took the pencil, and began drawing on the map. "The first murder thatfollows the pattern of the song was in Unami, followed by the Benoit murder. Those two are close together, but they form a line." She drew the line between them, but extended it to the southwest to the northeast. "But the next murder was at the ranch house," Craig observed. "Only one murder over here to the southwest." "But Thomas said that the energies from the original ritual never completely faded," Doggett reminded him. "That was why they took your sister there, to try to complete the '82 ritual. If the effects of that ritual still remain..." "Then it fits the pattern," Monica finished. "Just like Unami was farther from the midpoint, and then the Benoit residence was closer on the same line, the Willow Farm development is the 'outside' point. Specifically, the center point that was the original focus for the 1982 ritual. And then, if you take the next murder at the ranch house, they form another line." She drew the second line, from the southeast up to the northwest. They intersected close to the center of the map, in the southern section of Cranford. "The two most recent points are right over where those lines come together," Doggett pointed out. "Up here, the murder at Suicide, and right below that..." "The police station," Craig muttered. "Thomas." Monica nodded gravely, drawing the final line from the north to the south. The line intersected the others perfectly. "The murders were patterned to draw energy along those lines in the direction indicated by the sequence in which they took place," she demonstrated. "Outside to inside, all converging on this point." She sketched lines between the three outside points. "Here's our first triangle," she said, and then she sketched lines between the three inside points. "And here's the second one. Just like the murders in 1982, but on a much larger scale, and from a ritualistic standpoint, designed with a much more efficient spiritual purpose in mind." "Why do you say that?" Doggett asked, trying to see the difference. "The original ritual established a boundary within which the energies were to be contained," Monica explained, warming to the subject of her expertise. "The second boundary helped to focus the energies further, but taking the intent in mind, that was a messy way to focus power." "It defined a field, rather than a point," Craig observed. "Exactly," Monica agreed. "The basis of this new ritual is to direct power to a central point, drawing from the established foci, but also outward. Rather than close off a certain area and just call on the power within that area, this ritual funnels energy to the central point without boundaries." "That's getting a bit thick for my tastes," Doggett admitted. "But I see your point. And I think this tells us where the ritual is going to be concluded." He tapped on the central point. "Craig, you know where this is?" "Yeah," the younger man said, his grin returning. "It's a small park. Kinda like Unami, but stranger. It follows the course of a creek that flows into the Rahway River. There are two bike paths on either side of the creek. It's mostly dry now, but that just makes it easier for them." He gestured to the point on the map. "There's a little island, I guess you could say, right about at that point. It's really just a higher point in the dry creek bed." "What's strange about it?" Doggett asked. "People talk about losing time in there," Craig replied. "It should only take about fifteen minutes to walk end to end, but it always seems to take a lot longer." He shrugged. "Like I said, weird. But if that's where the gate is, it makes sense that there would be some kind of bizarre relativistic effect. Bending time and space." "I'll take your word for it," Doggett remarked dryly. He turned to Monica. "If this thing is following the progression of the song, then what are they planning to do to Kirsten when they take her there?" "Well, we know it has something to do with focusing energies on her, using her to draw other entities or intelligences to that point, so our adversary can absorb the energy and supposedly remake the world," Monica said, thinking aloud. "That fits the end of the song, where the 'souls ignite' and bring about the coming of the 'New Jerusalem'." "Which fits the apocalyptic imagery," Doggett recognized. "All right, so what does that mean in terms of what is actually going to happen?" "No way to know," Craig said ruefully. "But all that energy is likely going to kill her. If not at first, then that's probably how the entity intends to release it so it can absorb it." "Which doesn't tell us a thing about how to stop it," Doggett said with a sigh. "Fine. So know we know where this is going to happen, and we know it's going to happen before midnight. We still have no idea what is going to happen, exactly, or how to stop it." He turned to Craig. "I hate to say it, but you are the one who seems to be the most in tune with what is happening, based on whatever it is Thomas taught you. Was that enough to help us beat this thing? Maybe stop it from finishing the ritual?" "Not a chance," Craig admitted with a frown, shaking his head. "I can mess with people's heads, but going up against that thing? Thomas is the one we would need. Without him, I have no idea what we can hope to accomplish." "There has to be something," Doggett demanded. "I refuse to believe that we've gotten this far, only to run out of options." "Thomas said this thing is probably going to toy with us, give us false hope," Monica reminded him. She shrugged. "I understand the rituals, I see what they intend to do, but given the fact that the six murders needed to set this up have already been committed...well, our only chance is to stop them from performing the ritual at the gate." "Which means going up against the entire Cranford police department, as well as most of the local political figures," Craig reminded them. "Even if we were to stop this through the application of force, they could use that against us and charge us with killing cops." "So we have to find a way to stop them without killing anyone," Doggett agreed. "That's something I would have wanted to avoid anyway, but it makes our job that much tougher." "And since they have the roads into the area blocked off, they control access," Monica reminded them. "They can keep us out, take us down as soon as we try to get in, or take their time hunting us down, since we can't do much anyway." "I'm surprised we haven't had visitors yet," Doggett remarked. There was a sound by the door, and Doggett quickly wished he had kept his thoughts to himself. He drew his weapon, and motioned Craig to get behind the cover of the bed as Monica slid her own gun from its holster. They took up positions on opposite sides of the room, aiming for the doorway. The doorknob turned slowly, and then the door cracked open, and they heard a familiar voice. "Put the guns down, damn it!" Doggett looked to Monica, and they smiled. Craig was already running for the door. "Thomas!" Craig cried, pulling his mentor through the doorway. Thomas winced at the rough treatment, and slumped against the first patch of wall he could find while Doggett quickly closed the door behind him. "You look like hell," Doggett observed, carefully looking the man over. There were wounds that were still bleeding badly, and the man's breathing was labored in a way that suggested broken ribs. "Feel like it, too," Thomas replied with an attempt at a grin. He looked around the room, noticed the map on the wall. "You figured out where the gate is?" "We think so," Monica answered. "And I think we figured out what the rituals were meant to do." "Good," Thomas rasped. He took a glass of water that Craig offered. He looked at them all intently, his gaze lingering on Doggett, and then he nodded slowly. "I think we all understand each other now...what has been happening, what this is all about, and what it is we're facing. Too bad it had to take this long, but somehow I get the feeling that's the way it was meant to be." "You get any feelings on how we're supposed to beat this thing?" Doggett asked, kneeling down next to McShane. "If you're alive, then it should be over," Monica observed. "The sixth murder was prevented." "Not quite," Thomas said, his tone full of remorse. "In the course of saving my own skin, I accidentally killed Davis, using the weapon that was meant to kill me for the purposes of the ritual." "Can we beat it?" Doggett demanded. Thomas looked at him, and Doggett once again felt like the man was looking directly into his soul. "Yes, Agent Doggett. Together, the four of us, we can beat it." He looked at Doggett even more intently. "In fact, I know exactly what needs to be done."
November 30, 2000 Nearly an hour had passed since McShane had arrived at the hotel, bleeding and soaked to the bone. After Monica had helped tend to his wounds, he had walked over to the table, pulled a chair towards the wall where the map had been hung, and began staring at the pattern of roads as though some hidden meaning might make itself known. And it was frustrating the hell out of Doggett. Craig had left the room soon time ago, suggesting that he might be able to see how extensively the local roads were being detoured based on the patterns of traffic around the hotel. Something told him that it had just been an excuse, a way for McShane to get some time to recover and consider their options. On the other hand, Monica was taking an inventory of the weapons at their disposal. Just in the room alone, they had three guns, several knives that McShane had managed to recover from the evidence locker, and the Ka-Bar blades that Craig had been carrying during their visit to Suicide. "We ought to have more in the car," Monica said suddenly, grabbing her jacket. "I'll go check." "Hold on," Doggett said, walking towards the door with her. "It's a rental. When would we have left weapons in the car?" "I'm just checking," Monica said with a smile, walking out the door without another word. Doggett stared after her, and then shook his head, unable to understand why everyone was acting so calmly. A quick glance at the clock confirmed that they had less than five hours until midnight, and he'd bet good money that the final ritual would be started long before the deadline. "There any reason why we're just sitting around waiting?" Doggett asked suddenly, his patience at an end. He turned to McShane. "I thought we were in a hurry." "To do what?" McShane replied, his eyes still scanning the map. "I know what we have to do, and there is a time for it. Acting now might give us more time to stop them, but it also gives them more time to stop us." "They already know where we are," Doggett argued. "If they wanted to stop us, they could have taken the fight here." "Why would they do that?" McShane asked, finally turning away from the wall. "So long as we are here, they have no reason to act. We remain contained. And at this point, inaction suits its purposes far more effectively than action." Doggett laughed, a sharp and caustic sound. "This is ridiculous. We don't even know what's going to happen. And here you are, acting like it's no big deal. I thought you said you knew what to do. Then why aren't we doing anything, damn it?" McShane hesitated for a moment, as if considering his response, and then nodded to himself. "Are you under the impression that I'm going to allow this ritual to come to its conclusion? That I'm going to fail to give everything I have to end the cycle of degradation and pain?" He took a step towards Doggett. "If that is what you are thinking, Agent Doggett, that I could allow these things to happen without a fight, then you have a very interesting and low opinion of me. Because in order to let these things happen, on the faint possibility that I might manage to survive what would follow, I would have to ignore the reality of what is about to happen." He looked into Doggett's eyes, searching for something specific, it seemed. "Who matters to you, John? Not among the passed, but among the living. Consider who truly matters to you." He might have thought that his thoughts would turn to his remaining family, or his friends at the Bureau, even Agent Scully or Monica. But much to his surprise, perhaps in response to some undercurrent in the way that McShane had asked the question, he found himself thinking of the woman he had met recently, the woman with the raven-black hair and the eyes so similar to the ones boring into him now. A woman who had shown him something equally profound that he could not explain or understand, but that he could not deny. McShane continued, his voice softer. "Think of her as you last saw her, the strength that had taken root again. The energy that simply flowed around her, within her, strengthening you with its simplicity in return. The way her eyes looked into yours, everything that you saw there...understanding, interest, but above all, hope. "Think of the moment when they come for her. Maybe it will be in her home, late at night when she is sleeping peacefully, unaware. Maybe it will be as she walks out of a building, or down the street. Maybe she'll feel it coming, and she'll be waiting in terror, waiting for the moment when they burst into the door and grab her by the throat, pinning her arms to the small of her back. Throwing her to the ground, roughly binding her hands, covering her eyes, gagging her mouth. "Perhaps she'll be lucky, and they will be short on time. Or maybe they'll have enough time to rip open her clothes, run their hands down and over her skin, take what they wish while she is unable to struggle. But she'll wonder all of that time, whether left to her own devices or as they use her for sport, how long it will be until the end comes. "They'll pull her to her feet, eyes still covered, mouth still gagged, and tear off whatever clothes she still might be wearing. They will drag her naked and exposed into a clearing, pushing her to her knees. Once there, they will take a blade, perhaps two to three inches long, and slice symbols into the flesh of her back. And then the one that demands this be done will call out and draw down energies that her body cannot contain or control. "Her flesh will begin to sear and crack as it burns from the inside out, charring and crisping. And all the while, as it spreads to her arms, her legs, her face...she will be alive and conscious, feeling every last measure of agony without mercy. Then the flesh will begin to shear off in chunks from her bones, until the moment that her mutilated and abused body can no longer function to keep her alive. And then, Agent Doggett, only then will she be allowed to die." McShane paused, pulling Doggett back to the present. Doggett found himself shaking ever so slightly, a deep pain and tension in the core of his being. "You would not allow that to happen to her, would you, John?" McShane asked, and Doggett shook his head, unable to speak. "But if this ritual is allowed to happen, if our enemy is allowed to spread its influence even farther, then that is exactly what will happen. And it is exactly what they plan to do to the woman I love, and the mother of my child." McShane turned, and pointed to the map. "I have been considering the best route that we might take to the site of the ritual, avoiding as many of the patrols that they are likely to have out on the streets. Encountering them is inevitable. But we might be able to choose the time and the place." Sighing, McShane turned back to Doggett. "As I said. Acting too quickly ends any chance we have of stopping those things from happening." Doggett cleared his throat, forced the words from his mouth. "If we can't stop them until they take Kirsten to the ritual site, then you know...they could be..." "No," McShane said calmly, but even so, Doggett could now see the conflict behind those eyes. "As I said, time is a factor. And as soon as they attempted to abuse her in those ways, she would no longer react with the fear that it needs her to feel." He shrugged. "It used her like that for years. The one thing she never could accept was the cold and calculated indifference. And so that is how it will regard her until the time is right." "You'll still be cutting it close," Doggett observed, trying to calm himself down, forget the images that had flashed into his mind moments before. McShane nodded. "The key is getting there as she is being brought to the site, or shortly after. The wounds on her back, should she receive them, would heal in time. Again, she endured worse during the years under its control. But we must get to her before the energies are drawn into her. That kind of damage, even the best and talented healers would be unlikely to heal." McShane walked over to the map, traced a route carefully. "We will leave within the hour. We should be able to cross the abandoned grounds that stretch from this nearby intersection with Raritan Road to the opposing side near Lexington. The wide open expanse is the kind of terrain they want to avoid. It's the route from Lexington to the ritual site on the other side of the river that will be the deciding factor." A noise at the door announced Monica's return. Her typically shaggy black hair was now soaked through. "All done?" McShane nodded, and Doggett turned to Monica with a scowl. "You knew what was going to happen?" "Didn't take a psychic to figure it out," she countered. "Why would we have left weapons in the car?" She grinned. "You were practically pacing a rut into the floor, and if looks could kill, Thomas would have been a pile of ash." She saw Doggett pale, and her bemused expression shifted to one of concern. "What is it?" "Nothing," Doggett muttered, turning away. "Did you happen to see Craig?" "He's on his way," Thomas said before Monica could answer. "When he gets here, we will go over the rest of the route I think we should take. And there is one last thing we should discuss. Something we might have to deal with." McShane returned to the map, as if checking over his decisions. Doggett took Monica by the arm, pulling her to one side. "What is it?" she repeated. "I can buy the fact that you could tell that I was beginning to lose my patience with Thomas, but I get the feeling there was more to it." Monica hesitated, looking past him towards Thomas, and then nodded. "I was getting a very strong feeling that I should leave the room. Just enough to know that if he wanted to, he could have gotten me to leave without knowing he was behind it." "What are you saying?" Doggett pressed. "On the whole, he's being straight with us," Monica said, lowering her voice. "But I think that it's because he truly believes he's going to need us, and so he tells us what he thinks we need to know." "So you think he's hiding something," Doggett said, his tone making it clear that he believed it as well. "Since day one, he's controlled the amount of information we have," Monica reminded him. "You said it yourself. As much as he might find it offensive that this thing is manipulating people, he's doing the exact same thing." "You said he needs us," Doggett mused. "What do you think he needs us for?" "I couldn't say," Monica admitted. "But I think I'm involved because he thought I could help you see what was happening here, make it more acceptable to you. And so I think when push comes to shove, you're the one he's counting on." "But how?" Doggett said, his impatience returning. "They're the ones with all the abilities and gifts or whatever you want to call it. What do they need me for?" 7:24 PM "So far, we have been dealing with the physical side of the equation," McShane began. "Most of the actions that have been taken have been through the actions of those it controls. The police, the cultists. Very little that you have seen has been the result of the actual enemy engaging us on a personal, direct level." Doggett, Monica, and Craig were sitting by the table, listening intently. Doggett was still a bit impatient, but he knew that they would be taking action as soon as this last matter was attended to. "As you know, the enemy is a pure intelligence that has been pulled into the physical world," McShane continued. "Its basic and fundamental existence required the manipulation of energy. That is what it knows, how it lives. It is a matter of instinct, something that is so basic that it does not consider how it does so. Just as we do not consciously consider or control the way that our cells operate. "Because of that, it understands how to manipulate and control others like itself, the basic intelligences of the humans around us. It can crudely control biological systems once it learns the way its energies specifically ebb and flow. But so far as a direct application or redirection of energy to control or affect matter goes, it is limited. "In the same way, it is easier for the enemy to enter a body and take control, because the linkages between the host intelligence and the host body are already there for it to duplicate. Creating a form of its own is far more difficult. In the last nine years, Craig and I have only seen it attempt this strategy twice." McShane pointed to the Willow Farm development on the map. "The first time was within days after I rescued Kirsten from being killed in the '91 ritual. I had just been released from jail, and I was staying with Kirsten while she recovered from the trauma of being separated from the entity. "Late that night, as she lay sleeping, I found myself unable to sleep or rest. I could feel the swirling of energy in the room around us, as if something were watching us, trying to determine what had happened. For a time it kept me unaware of its exact nature, keeping itself elusive. But then, not far from the edge of the bed, I could see something coalescing, forming in the air. "Being a creature of sentient energy, living without material form, it can exist spread out over untold space or compressed into the sparest of spaces. In the same way, it began forming itself into a shape in the room. But instead of defining itself by its presence, I could only get a sense of it by looking just to one side, letting its apparent absence define its location for my senses. "Our physical brains and senses have no means of interpreting those signals and energies, and so it appeared as a kind of column of shimmering air, like heat convecting over the highway in the noonday sun, radiating the concept of appearing to be human rather than physically looking human. As difficult as that is to describe, there was no question in my mind that I was looking at the very thing that had attempted to kill me nine years before, and had attempted to kill Kirsten Walden. "Primitively, crudely, it began reaching out, trying to determine how I was keeping it from entering her mind again, or what else I might be able to do. Just the effort of appearing in that kind of form, manifesting as it was, required the use of massive resources. And so it was an easy thing to push back, to put it on the defensive. I tried to strike at its core, since it had been foolish enough to center it right there within my grasp. "It escaped. But only because it used the last of its available power to do something that I could not anticipate." "Did either of you notice anything peculiar in Unami?" Craig asked, looking at Doggett and Monica. "Yeah," Doggett admitted. "When we got into the ritual site itself, the trees seemed to close up, and we couldn't see out into the local area." "Even though we could see straight through the trees to begin with," Monica added. "I almost had it," McShane resumed, "but then the next thing I know, it was completely gone without a trace, and the clock read an hour before it had first appeared." "It did what?" Doggett said, straightening. "Are you trying to tell me this thing did something with time?" "This is a being of energy, regardless of however else you want to put it," Craig reminded them. "Energy that can appear and reappear wherever it likes, because it's natural state is as a non-localized phenomenon. It's natural state is apart from the physical laws we know." He pointed to Doggett. "Remember what I told you a couple days ago? That time is just another dimension, same as length or width?" "Understand, this was still not something so simple," McShane added quickly. "It was a move of last resort, and the fact that I was able to set up myself in the area soon after suggests that it was left largely weakened for some time afterward." "You said there were two instances," Doggett reminded him. "It happened about two years later, when some of Craig's immediate friends began to experience problems with some of the people under its influence," McShane answered. "It was a bad time," Craig said, his usual grin nowhere to be seen. "I don't think I've ever had many close friends since then, besides homas." "We were out late at night, having been called to a house close to the center of town. It turned out to be a ruse, and we discovered belatedly that the target was being taken to that house to be...re-educated." "Like Kirsten had been," Monica guessed. "Likely," McShane replied. "We started moving quickly towards the direction of the house, avoiding the police patrols that were inevitably out that night. We came to one stretch of road, leading directly towards the house, and found that most of the streetlights had gone out, leaving most of the street in shadow. Craig was the first to notice them." "It was as if the shadows themselves were alive, in the shapes of some sort of animal," Craig continued. "Like the figure that Thomas saw that night in '91, these creatures or forms were more easily seen or sensed by what was unseen, rather than what we could see when directly looking at them." "Apparently it had learned how to create small, fluid ways to act on the physical world," McShane resumed. "The fact that they were constantly in motion made them easier to control and manipulate. It was not that it had learned to control itself better, but rather, it learned how to work within the bounds of its own limitations." Craig indicated the spot on the map that they had been talking about. "The police under its control had been carefully pushing us towards this area, the few roads between the house and the location we had been fooled into checking. The idea had been to either contain us in the area where we could be arrested and kept from interfering, or to push us right into its teeth." "Getting detained was not an option," McShane said with conviction. "And so we decided that we would have to attempt to make our way through those shadows." "We searched for a way to move that would keep us within the light, where it would have more difficulty coming at us with the shadow forms," Craig explained. "Within the dark, it could maintain enough shape just long enough to get to us. But in the light, it would have to become more corporeal, which would weaken it too much to effectively strike." "But soon it became obvious that the areas that were lit were too small and too far apart to provide a practical defense," McShane said. "With time running out, I had to act in the only way that I could think of. I called on some of the greater forces that I had learned to trust and believe in. Call it what you will. I consider it to be the Mother Goddess, the guiding intelligence that watches us all." "Kirsten said something about that," Doggett said, remembering that part of Monica's summary of their conversation. "How that was supposed to explain the ravens. How that's the living symbol of the Goddess, something 'out there' that you consider to be your benefactor." "Of course," Monica whispered. "The Morrigan. In Celtic lore, she was the incarnation of the warrior maiden, a symbol of death." "More correctly, the appearance of the raven marked the nearness of one's spirit to the Otherworld, marking an awareness of an impending time of death, or crossing into the next life, existence as a pure intelligence." McShane shrugged. "It's a matter of distinction. One way or another, I called on that guiding force, drew in as much energy as I could to push those shadow forms away from our path." "It worked," Craig said, his grin returning. "I could feel something radiating from him, and his eyes were practically shining in the night. All around us, as we started to walk down that road, those shadows started to waver and disappear, melting back into the real shadows like they had never existed." "I don't remember it very well," McShane admitted. "But an hour later, I was leaning against one of the walls in that basement, and Craig was telling me that not only had his friend escaped relatively unharmed, but the enemy had been just as weakened in the process." "Thomas was bedridden for a couple weeks after that," Craig said with a sigh. "But that was the last major attempt to act against us until recently." "The rest of the time was spent playing a kind of chess game in the process of trying to beat us to finding the location of the gate," McShane said with a kind of finality. "After that night, even if I had been weakened for a short while, I was also more in touch with what I could do, what I am." Doggett caught a slight reaction to that from Craig, and looking at Monica, he saw that she had noticed it as well. "Why are you telling is this?" he asked. McShane looked him in the eye. "John, this is the endgame, as far as the enemy is concerned. If it completes this ritual, it gains enough power to perpetuate the process and continue to draw in more and more power, until it will begin to control greater and greater numbers of people. If it wins, it will be far more powerful than even a dozen of my kind." Doggett knew that he was referring to the 'sentinels' or 'gatekeepers'. More powerful than even a dozen McShanes? "And if we stop it?" "Then I can force it back through the gate, where it can be contained by others like itself," McShane replied, as if it were obvious. "The commonality of life will subsume it as needed, to make sure that the madness cannot spread to others. The people under its control will regain as much control over themselves as can be restored at this point. Some might be left mentally and spiritually crippled, but in time, I should be able to make certain that the rituals will not be repeated." "I'm still a bit confused by this idea of an infinite commonality made of all intelligent life, and how it can operate in the ways you suggest," Monica said, "but I will say that it makes a certain amount of sense, in terms of a gut feeling. If it wins, it gets the upper hand for good, and we're all dead. If we win, we basically send it to 'spirit jail'." "Close enough," McShane said with a smirk. "So the point is, this thing has nothing left to lose," Doggett reasoned. "As far as a little extra effort goes, now is the time to do it." He looked to Monica, and then to Craig. "As soon as we leave, it's going to know we're coming. It's going to do exactly what it did before, using those shadow things to either keep us pinned down or take us out." "And it knows what defeating that particular trap would do to me," McShane said, confirming Doggett's analysis. "It would be weakened, but it would leave itself enough strength to control Fell and the others for completing the ritual. But I would be taken out of the fight in all the ways that really matter." "Then how would we be able to stop them?" Monica wondered. "I wasn't lying when I told John that I was going to put my life on the line to stop the enemy," McShane said calmly. "I will do what I can, even if it means that I might be left crippled in return when all is said and done. I will be there to work against them on their own level. But my actions will be limited." He pointed to the route he had indicated before. "Again, we should be able to get across this open space without much difficulty. It's going to be the stretch from where we pick up Lexington to get across the river that will be the part that we should worry about." He stopped for a moment, as if listening to something faint in the distance, and then nodded. "It's time. They will be moving Kirsten to the site very soon. We need to move now if we intend to get there at the proper time." "About time," Doggett muttered, rising to his feet. "One thing I want to make clear first. I know that we are going to have to defend ourselves. But for our part, as federal agents, I have to insist that we try to keep this as clean as possible. We don't kill anyone unless it is absolutely necessary." "Of course," Craig agreed. McShane seemed to hesitate for a moment, but also nodded. "I will meet you down in the lobby," McShane said, making for the door. "I have some things I need to attend to. And I would like to see my daughter...it may be the last time." "Is that wise?" Doggett asked, thinking of the child's welfare. "Do you really want her to see you, the way you look right now?" McShane looked down at his blood-stained clothes, at the weapons barely concealed under his leather jacket. "I can't do anything about the way I look, John. But I haven't seen her or held her for days, and if this ends badly..." Doggett left it at that, and walked over to his bed. Monica joined him, pulling out her weapon from her shoulder holster, making sure the clip was full. As soon as McShane was out the door, she looked over her shoulder to make sure Craig was distracted with his own preparations, then turned to Doggett. "He wasn't being completely honest," she whispered. "I know," Doggett replied, just as softly. "If he's going to be taken out of the fight, then he expects to win in another way." "I hate to say it, but I still think he has something in mind for you," Monica repeated. "And given what he's up against..." "Yeah, I know what you mean," Doggett admitted. "But the way I see it, we don't have much choice. However you want to look at it, the threat is real. Even if this is just a matter of a death cult led by the local police, there are lives at risk. It's our duty to make sure this is ended." "But it's not just a matter of a death cult, John, and the way you've been talking and acting since last night, I think you understand that," Monica reminded him. "Whatever it is Thomas has in mind, you are at the center of it." "I don't understand this at all," Doggett said honestly. "I'm going on instinct, and yeah, my gut's telling me that there's more to this than some simple cult. But I still don't know for certain. I'm still trying to work it out. In the meantime, there are some people out there trying to kill Kirsten Walden, and if they get that far, we're next." Monica hesitated, as if considering her words, and then sighed. "Just don't underestimate the possible threat here, John." She looked over her shoulder again. Craig was sliding one of the Ka-Bars onto his belt. "I don't think we're the only ones doubting full confidence in Mr. McShane." Doggett nodded, and then turned to Craig, casually checking his own weapon in the process. "Back when Thomas mentioned that he was left more in touch with what he could do...that seemed to make you uncomfortable. You mind telling us why?" Craig pretended to be checking the edge of one of his knives. "What do you mean?" "Was he different after that?" Monica added next to Doggett. "More detached?" Craig stopped his ruse, lowering the blade from his gaze, sighing as he slid it into its sheath. "Yeah, you could say that. Before that, he was dedicated to keeping us safe, to finding the gate and trying to teach me a few things, but after...after that night, when he was back on his feet? Not the same person, not exactly. He pushed a lot harder for me to try to learn as much as I could. First the science of it all...the physics, the quantum mechanics, all of that. Recently, it's been the stranger stuff, how to influence people, how to tune into that level of connection with others and the world around us." He turned towards them, flashing them a typical grin, but it was unconvincing. "Sometimes I wonder why he was doing it. Sometimes I think that he took advantage of the way my old friends avoided me after that Summer, took advantage of my inevitable feelings of isolation. And I start thinking of what kind of father he's going to be for Rhiannon, whether he's going to try to push her to learn the same things, to keep people at a distance like we have." He shook his head, looking towards the window. The rain was not coming down quite as hard, but they would still be soaked and chilled to the bone within minutes of leaving the hotel. "Don't get me wrong. I've never seen him be anything but a loving father, and Kirsten's never had any complaints. But sometimes I wonder what it might have been like, you know? What I might have done if things in the world were a little different." He let out a deep sigh, resumed his weapons check. "And I worry, just a little, about what is going to happen, what's he's going to be like, if we actually manage to win." November 30,2001 The rain was ripping sideways across the barren intersection, sending sheets of water drenching against their legs as they ran towards the open field. The traffic had been diverted from the area to the nearby Parkway, with a construction crew dubiously blocking the off-ramp next to the hotel. There were no police visibly maintaining the detour, and yet Doggett never saw anyone attempting to circumvent the cones and wooden barriers. Already aware of how confining the usual suit and tie would be in the pouring rain, he had decided to dress more casually, wearing an old black leather jacket over a tight navy blue button-down shirt. His black pants were already soaked through, but the material clung to his form in a way that allowed him to move freely. The jacket was resilient enough to keep him moderately dry, but the cold was still cutting through him without relief. A quick glance at Monica, just to his right, revealed that her own leather jacket was doing little to keep her blouse from clinging to her body. In better times, it might have been worth a moment's friendly banter, an exchange of comments. But now was hardly such a time. McShane was sticking close to Monica, leading the way. Craig ran just behind Doggett, making sure that they would remain pointed in the right direction, should the storm grow any stronger. For the moment, it was hardly necessary, but the field was quickly coming to an end, and the two younger men were the only ones familiar with the area. About fifty yards from the end of the field, where a broken fence bordered a pair of familiar railroad tracks, McShane held up a hand, pointing to the end of a road across the way. He waved the others close, and they knelt to the ground, close together, huddled against the rain. "The way to the river is clear," McShane said quickly, pointing roughly to the northwest. "There are two ways we can go. The easiest and most predictable route is going to be to cut down to Lexington, and cut over to Lincoln. Or we can take the chance that they are expecting us to take that way, and walk the tracks to Walnut." "Walnut's one of the bigger roads," Craig explained before Doggett could ask. "Better chance of getting caught by a patrol." "But I have the feeling that they would be expecting us to make that assumption," McShane continued. "Leave the larger road less protected, in the hopes of hitting us with larger numbers on Lexington." "More chance of getting a stray car along the bigger roads," Craig pointed out. "Much less chance of that on Lexington, and the locals there are likely to be under its influence." Doggett looked over his shoulder, and then pointed up the tracks. "This is the way we took to Suicide?" "Yeah," Craig confirmed. "Why?" Doggett looked towards Monica, and then shrugged. "Wouldn't they expect us to avoid anyplace we know they might gather?" "Maybe not tonight, with the ritual already started," Monica answered. "But to be honest, I think you're all right. I get the impression that the right way to go is down the tracks to Walnut, and cut towards the river along the larger, more exposed road." She tried to put it into words, and then shook her head. "Seems lighter somehow, if that's the word for it." "As good a word as any," McShane said with a nod. He looked at Doggett for a moment, as if he intended to ask a question, and then decided against it. "Then we're agreed. Walnut." He pointed to Craig and Doggett. "I'll take the lead with Monica. You two should follow up a short distance behind. Keep your eye out for any patrols that might try to flank us." Without another word, he tapped Monica on the shoulder and started up the tracks. Monica gave Doggett a slightly worried look, and then followed McShane as closely as possible, leaving the others to wait a few moments before taking up position. "I don't like this," Doggett said as soon as Monica was out of earshot. "Thomas never said anything about changing the route, or splitting up." "He knows what he's doing," Craig said confidently, or at least as confidently as possible, given the situation. "He always knows." "Yeah, I've noticed that," Doggett said as they stood, then walked slowly, keeping the others in sight. "Like how he knew what they had in mind with Simone Benoit? Or the rest? Funny how he got that wrong. Or was he always planning to pull innocents into this?" Craig hesitated, and then sighed. "Is this about what I said before? In the hotel? Because that doesn't change the fact that he's right." "Oh, it doesn't?" Doggett snapped back. "You said it yourself. He's not quite operating on the same wavelength as the rest of us, so how can you tell me why he does what he does? He's been stringing me and Agent Reyes along since I got here, giving us only what he thinks we need to know. How can you be sure he's doing the same with you?" "Now isn't the time for this," Craig replied harshly. "Thomas knows what he's doing. Let's just do what we have to do, all right?" He started walking faster, forcing Doggett to follow, ending the conversation. But Doggett had already gotten the answer he needed. 8:49 PM Monica looked back over her shoulder, just to be sure that John and Craig were still within sight through the driving rain. As much as she was trying to keep her own misgivings in check, she could feel the tension that was building between John and McShane. It had always been there, since the moment that John had started dealing with the mysterious suspect, but things were getting much worse now that the moment of truth had arrived. If McShane was concerned by the growing tension, he seemed not to care. In fact, he seemed to feed on that distrust, cultivating it slowly but surely. Part of the problem was the growing realization that McShane might have known more than he was letting on, even from the very beginning. And if that were true, then several people were now dead because McShane had chosen not to act until he was good and ready. Why, then, should they trust his motives now? "The bridge over Walnut is not far now," McShane said, suddenly at her side and breaking her concentration. "We'll want to come down on the side opposite from Lincoln." Monica nodded, and then asked, "Why didn't you tell Craig about where the gate was? Really?" McShane did not even hesitate, answering as they walked swiftly towards a gap in the trees. "The gate is mine to protect. This was the time we knew to worry over, this month, this year. The less people who knew about it, the less chance it might wind up in the wrong hands." "But it did anyway," Monica observed. "If what you say about this thing is true, then why would it have had trouble finding the gate in the first place? Wouldn't it recognize the energies involved, since it is energy in the first place?" "Are you doubting my sincerity, Agent Reyes?" McShane asked calmly, stepping down by the side of the bridge, looking up at her with those piercing green eyes. "If so, why are you here?" "It's not your sincerity I'm doubting, Thomas," Monica replied, taking his offered hand as she stepped down as well. "It's your motives." McShane smiled, an odd reaction given the circumstances. "As I told your partner, I am more than willing to make whatever sacrifices I must to end this." "Like Simone Benoit? Or Theresa McMillan?" Monica asked, her voice becoming more harsh. Her worst suspicions were becoming more and more likely with every response. "How about Kirsten, Thomas? Or Rhiannon? What kinds of sacrifices are you willing to accept? How many more?" She looked back at John and Craig. "One of them? How about all three of us?" "I can assure you that it was never my plan to place Kirsten in this position," McShane snapped back. "Preventing my own death at the police station would have broken the cycle. Davis was an accident." "But the rest wasn't?" Monica pressed, noting how that had been avoided. "I've been thinking about these abilities of yours, the way you can apparently communicate with people at a distance, see what they see, know what they are thinking." They stopped just behind the bridge, while McShane checked for any sign of trouble. "There is a point, I hope?" McShane replied, his calm returning. "How hard would it be for you to take those abilities and manipulate a person's reactions, when you can look into their mind and see how they would react to what you might say or do? Like the way Craig manipulated those people at the hotel to protect Rhiannon. How would someone know that you were being honest, when you know without a doubt which lie you need to tell them, whenever it suits your purpose?" McShane looked under the bridge a final time, and then turned to her. "What interesting thoughts you have, Monica." He looked into her eyes, his expression serious. "Tell me, do you think John is thinking about any of this? Having the same doubts?" "I'd bet he's even more doubtful," Monica said with a nod. "Considering that he's still trying to figure out if he believes any of this in the first place." To her surprise, McShane's face broke into a wide smile. "Good." And with that, he jumped to the street, leaving her even more concerned over what McShane had planned for her friend. Less than fifteen minutes later, Doggett and Craig were standing in the same spot. McShane and Monica had paused within the shadows of a house less than a block up the road. So far, there had been no sign of patrols in the area, and most of the houses were already darkened, as if some undercurrent of weariness had settled in, driving the local population into slumber. All of Doggett's instincts, well honed from his time in the Corps, told him that things were just a little too quiet. "Something's wrong," Doggett whispered. "They've been in that position too long." "There's an open space not far up the road, a school ground," Craig noted. "They are almost directly across from it. There should be a lot of light coming from there, but I don't see it." Doggett recognized the pattern instantly. "This is exactly what Thomas was telling us about. It's like that time when you were trying to get out of the center of town, isn't it? I thought Thomas said the way was clear." "It appears to be," Craig observed. He pointed a bit further up the road. "From the school, it's about a block to the intersection with Lincoln, and the river is not far from the intersection. The location of the ritual is a short walk along the river to where the creek used to flow into it. A couple blocks, at the most." "Makes sense that there would be trouble once we cross the river," Doggett noted. "Thomas got the feeling that they had the other way to that intersection locked down. If I was going to set a trap, then the space between the two forces would be the place." "Right there, then," Craig said, seeing the problem. "But why would Thomas have brought us along this route, if he knew that it was a trap?" "Good question," Doggett muttered. Seeing the look on Craig's face, he relented slightly. "The way he was talking, he knew that we would run into something like this. Maybe he thought that he could handle the trap if he knew that it was there in the first place. I don't know. But if this situation is anything like what he described, then we need to stop playing games and make for the river. Because Thomas said it himself...he's out of the fight if we run into those things you two told us about." Craig seemed to agree, but hesitated for a moment, lost in thought. "This makes no sense. Why would he have us split up like that, if he knew what we were going to run into here?" "Maybe he wanted the chance to talk with Monica alone," Doggett guessed. "But why?" Craig demanded. "Part of the plan?" "I don't know," Doggett admitted. "But I have to say, if this is all part of his plan...well, frankly, I think it stinks." "Something's out there," McShane said, pointing in the direction of the intersection. Monica looked closely, but most of the streetlights were out, and the wind had begun to swirl the rain into a frenzy. "I don't see anything." "We need to get out of the shadows," McShane said abruptly, grabbing her by the arm. "The others are coming. They know it's a trap." Monica started to protest, but she thought it better to remain calm and go along with whatever McShane had in mind. They ran back in the direction they came, stopping under the nearest patch light. They were exposed now, but then again, if circumstances were as bad as they seemed, it wouldn'tmake much of a difference. Within seconds, John and Craig were standing under the light as well, John's scowl complemented by Craig's expression of barely concealed worry and confusion. "Let me guess," John said, his voice full of derision. "Plan B?" "Same plan, but not what I was hoping for," McShane replied, but now Monica could tell that it a lie. For a split-second, she felt a rush of triumph, and then she realized that it was just as possible that McShane wanted them to notice. "And what would that have been?" John pressed, but Craig stepped in, stopping the confrontation. "The river," the younger man demanded. "We're running out of time." "Yes, we are," McShane emphasized. That, at least, seemed more heartfelt, Monica mused. "What exactly are we dealing with?" McShane pointed up the road. "Try not to look for them directly. Look just to one side, or let your eyes slip out of focus. You'll see the movements...they will be more deliberate than the random motions of the trees and rain." Monica looked towards the intersection, letting her eyes fall on one of the lights in the background, then looking just to the right of it. At first there was nothing for her to see, just the normal flickering of the light from the rain cascading from the sky. It felt foolish, standing soaked and chilled to the bone in the pouring rain, staring at nothing. But then she saw it. Or rather, she saw something move, a repositioning of something closer to her than the light. Her eyes immediately focused on the spot where the movement had been, as if hoping to catch the next motion in the act, but there was nothing but dark and shadow. Taking a quick glance at the space, she saw that it was close to one of the buildings just beyond the school, under a tight pattern of trees and houses that lined that stretch of the road. Blinking her eyes, she turned towards John, and saw that he was peering at something on the other side of the street. The skeptical look on his face remained, so she was certain that he had not seen anything. But just as she was about to say something to him, to tell him what she thought she had seen, his eyes flickered and went wide. "Son of a bitch," he whispered, and he pointed directly at the center of the intersection. Monica followed his gaze, and just before her eyes focused on the patch of light below the wildly swinging stoplight, she saw several shadows slip and move out of sight, moving in their direction. The forms were somewhat indistinct, as though constantly changing shape and function, but there was an underlying sense of menace in those motions, something that made Monica want to run and hide in the darkest space she could find. "That's the way it felt before," Craig muttered, and she noticed he was watching them. "That need to hide in the one place that would be easiest for it to get to you." "Whatever the hell they are, they're getting closer," Doggett said, a slight betrayal of uncertainty in the tone of his voice. Monica looked back towards the intersection and noticed several more forms, much closer, before their motion was lost to her perception. "How about that plan of yours, Thomas?" "Working on it," McShane muttered, and she could see the way he was trembling, the muscles in his neck tight and strained. And then, as she moved to look at his face, she saw something shift behind his eyes. Doggett heard Monica gasp, and he tore his gaze away from the bizarre shifts and slips of shadow. She was staring at McShane as though something had happened to him, something unexpected. Fearing the worst, he stepped towards the man, his hand sliding towards his weapon in the same graceful moment. But as soon as he looked into McShane's face, he stopped, unable to understand what he was seeing. It was as though McShane's eyes were glowing with a shimmering inner light, as if he were filled with some excess of electric energy that threatened to strike out from within. Even the air around them seemed charged with something tangible, an ever-widening wave that seemed to filter the oppressive darkness and fear out of the air itself. He turned to Craig, his hand no longer reaching for his gun. "Is this what happened before?" Craig nodded. "It's stronger this time, but yeah, this is the same thing." He pointed towards the intersection. "Look. You can see for yourself. He's clearing the way." Doggett followed Craig's gaze, and it was as though he could see the expanding sphere of light reaching into the night, disintegrating and diffusing the shadow creatures from the corners and cracks in which they attempted to hide. It seemed as if the sphere would continue to expand as far as their goal, but all too soon, its boundaries began to waver, fluctuate, and finally hold several hundred feet away. "Start walking," McShane rasped, his face contorted in pain. Craig grabbed his arm, and together they moved forward, McShane's legs bending stiffly at the knees, the rest of his body rigid. The movement made their zone of protection shimmer into an even smaller space, but it was more than enough space for them to move forward in comfort. Doggett did not move at first, instead finding himself unable to tear his eyes away from the figure in front of him. It occurred to him that they were quickly losing their best weapon for the fight ahead; a battle that he could not even begin to understand how to wage. "John?" he heard Monica say, and he looked down past the water dripping down from his matted hair. "Monica, this is insane," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the constant din of the downpour. "How can he do this? How can anyone do this?" He smiled, a weary grin. "I know, we've already heard the explanations. But still..." "We have to follow them, John," Monica insisted. "I know this is difficult to understand, hard to accept, but these people need us. Whatever doubts you might have about him, Thomas is suffering to make sure we make it in time to stop that ritual. No matter what you might believe or not believe, that's what we have to focus on now." Gathering his composure, slightly embarrassed by his momentary slip, he nodded and started walking briskly towards Craig and McShane. Monica had been right to remind him that the real problem to solve was the ritual, that it was critical that they arrive in time to prevent Kirsten's death, but his doubts remained. He had done everything possible to work past them for as long as possible, but now that he was by McShane's side, seeing all of that theory he had heard transmuted into sharp reality, it was overwhelming. How could he doubt the reality of something so pervasive when it was exposed so blatantly before him? A part of his mind reminded the skeptic, forced him to consider all of the inconsistencies and gaps in the story that McShane had told them. It was obvious now that McShane had been aware of the plans of his enemies, that he had allowed himself to be arrested and detained. He had allowed several young men and women to die horribly painful deaths, all so that the final plans of his adversaries could be revealed in full. He had requested FBI involvement, and then carefully manipulated them until they were forced to help him. And all the while, he had left his most devoted friend and his family in the dark, in jeopardy, to ensure that his plans would remain intact. In the end, Doggett realized, it might not matter if McShane's enemy was defeated. McShane himself was possibly just as much a threat. Monica walked closely behind John, absently watching the shadows come and go around them, disappearing from around them, only to reappear in their wake. But as they neared the intersection, she found herself no longer concerned with that threat. As McShane had promised, he had been able to protect them from that particular attack. Her worries were completely devoted to her friend. Perhaps better than anyone, perhaps better than himself, she understood the battle that was waging within the core of his being. John was a man whose entire existence hinged on the ability of his mind to reconcile and rationalize the world around him. Ever since the death of his son, he had placed rigid boundaries on that world, choosing not to see anything that might force him to consider a world that was not quite so tidy. Even as he had delved into the darkest corners of human depravity, inspired to find ever more authority to end the suffering of others, he had maintained those strict blinders. His time on the X-Files had been a test of that resolve. He had been forced to experience and observe some of the most bizarre and unexplainable events imaginable, things that even she had not considered possible. Resurrections, alien viruses, ancient evils, all of it had crossed his path in the last eight months since his transfer. And through it all, he had been able to hold on to some semblance of his rational world. All of that had come to an end in the last 24 hours, as both science and his own senses had forced him to consider that there was something more. For better or worse, he seemed to believe that accepting the unknown meant personal failure, some measure of weakness that he would have to admit. The fact that he had lasted this long without showing the strain was remarkable. Now the faade was breaking down, and he was beginning to waver in his resolve. She had no doubt that he would do what was necessary. Whatever it was that McShane had planned for him, John would manage to survive it. She didn't know if he would be able to survive it with his heart and soul intact. "We're here," Craig said suddenly, breaking her from her reverie. "Thomas, you can stop now. We're out of the trap." The feeling of light and freedom collapsed around then, and Monica could feel the oppressive weight of the dark energies flowing around them once again. McShane slumped weakly against his friend, his face pale. He looked as though he had given every ounce of his own energy to repel the attack, and for a moment, Monica wondered if it was genuine. "How is he?" John asked, looking closely at McShane's face. "I'm fine," McShane said, but his voice was weak. "We need to move quickly. Time's running out." "Right," John murmured, and he turned to Craig. "Looks like it got what it wanted. It's up to us." He started towards the river, and Monica moved to help Craig support McShane as they moved to follow. Watching John move, she could see that he was overcompensating, acting to keep himself from reacting. It was a dangerous situation. "This is bad," Craig said under his breath, addressing McShane, but obviously including her. "I know that this is what we supposed to expect, but I have no idea how to fight this thing on my own. And John's not holding it together very well. We never should have..." "We'll be fine," McShane slurred. "All part of the plan." "Pushing John to the breaking point was part of your plan?" Monica said harshly, careful to keep her voice low enough so that John would not overhear. "I'd love to hear the answer to that question," Craig said, and for the first time, Monica had a sense of the young man's anger. "We'll be fine," McShane repeated. "We'll worry over the rest later. Just stay strong, my friend. You can do this." They came to a small bridge, and John walked towards them, looking into McShane's eyes before saying anything. Monica could see the weariness in both men, but the tension remained, and for a moment, it strengthened them both. John pointed along the river, roughly to the northeast. "That's the way?" he said, his eyes hard. "The way to your gate?" Monica caught the specific way he asked the question, the evidence of the conflict within. McShane merely nodded, and then John was on the move again, forcing the others to follow. "Oh, sure," Craig said, forcing his characteristic grin. "We'll be just fine..." The wind was biting every inch of his exposed face, numbing his hands until his fingers felt as though they were no longer attached. And yet he walked on, step by step, his only concern reaching the goal. He could feel Monica's gaze on his back, the way she seemed to be trying to read his every mood from his movements and words, but he was no longer concerned about that. All that mattered was the final goal. He could feel the emptiness rising within, the old and familiar demon. The memory of ashes, searing flame on flesh, the endless image of his child lifeless. It was the final image he saw in his mind when he closed his eyes every night, and the first hint of memory as his consciousness fluttered into awareness ever morning. Maybe he would go to sleep contented, or rise with a smile, but in the end, somewhere in his soul, the image endured, the constant reminder of his mission in life. He had thought that he had done everything in his power to save his son, to prevent the inevitable. He had turned to every resource in his arsenal, even when he felt as though he had been grasping at straws, hinging his hopes on phantoms. It hadn't mattered. None of it had mattered. Because in the end, his son was dead, and that final enduring image of ashes was all that remained. He would do this thing, save these lives. He would see to the end of this threat, the thing that had laid his responsibility in his child's death bare before him. He would deliver these questionable and deceptive allies into the struggle, and then he would make sure it came to an end. He was no longer concerned with what might come after. His footsteps took him past several houses, until he found himself descending into a shallow depression, a steady stream of muddy water rushing down to the river. He followed the water's path with his gaze, noting how it led into a small but thick cluster of trees, divided by the muddy remnants of the creek bed. It curved out of sight within the trees, and his instincts told him that this was the final path he needed to follow. He looked back to McShane, and the man nodded, telling him that his suspicions were correct. He avoided looking towards Monica, knowing that he couldn't face those perceptive now, not when he was so close and focused. She knew what he was thinking, had seen the same image. But her understanding was imperfect, impersonal. He would trust her with his life, true, but his thoughts, his damnation, had to be his own. The chill of the rushing water might have slowed him before, but the constant downpour from the relentless storm had long since sapped away the pain in his feet. He vaguely considered that he would have to be concerned with hypothermia, given how long they had been exposed to the elements, but the thought flashed in and out of his mind without serious consideration. That was something to worry over when the job was done. The sound of sloshing, not far behind, reminded him that he also had others to consider. He scanned the terrain for any hint of resistance. Their way had been strangely clear since the attack on Walnut, something that felt wrong when he thought about it. The answer came to him quickly. With McShane taken out of the fight, the enemy was confident that there was no way it could lose. Allowing them to come to the endgame, to see it in person, was nothing more than a stroke of arrogance. He stopped close to the first trees, looking to either side. There were houses clearly visible in all directions, but there was an odd quality to the air not far into the park. He remembered what McShane and Craig had said, how the enemy could manipulate and change the world if needed, and resolutely continued on. The curve took him slightly uphill, until the ground was slightly more firm. A quick glance confirmed that he could no longer see the houses through the trees. A movement to one side caught his eye, and he saw a large man standing in the center of the highest point in the creek bed, his body bare, blue eyes shining in the darkness. Doggett recognized him as Charles Fell, the police sergeant. On the ground, equally bare, was Kirsten Walden, her back intricately sliced with various symbols. A second man stood over her, the bloodied knife in his grip, staring at Doggett with an expression of smug satisfaction. Doggett continued walking towards the scene, gripping his weapon and taking careful aim in one swift motion. "Federal agent!" he cried, not bothering to reach for his badge. Everyone on the scene would know who he was by now. That much was certain. "Put the weapon down, and move away!" Neither man moved. In fact, Fell seemed more than a little amused. "I said, step away!" Doggett said more forcefully, and a casual flick of his thumb cocked the hammer. "Step away now!" Before he could say another word, a shot rang out from behind him, and as the skin of his right arm seared with a glancing wound, his weapon fell to the ground and discharged. Monica had tried calling out to John, had tried to stop him from aiming at Kirsten, but nothing had worked. As soon as she realized that he was going to fire, she had drawn her own gun and hoped that she could get his attention with a close shot. It took only a moment for her to recognize that she had tagged him, as he grabbed his arm and hit the ground, one hand reaching for his weapon after its wild discharge. The man holding the knife lurched backward as Monica knelt to John's side, a quick look over her shoulder confirming that Craig and McShane were moving on Fell in their own way. "John, listen to me," Monica said quickly, as he shook his head, trying to clear it. "As soon as you walked into the trees, we tried to get your attention. You just walked right up here and aimed at Kirsten. I had to stop you." He seemed to understand, cursed under his breath. "Damn thing got in my head," he muttered. He looked around, trying to get a sense of what was happening. Monica pulled John to his feet, unable to get a sense of what was happening. On the surface of things, it appeared as though Craig and McShane were just standing next to Kirsten, staring at Fell impassively. But there was some kind of undercurrent rushing all around them, the hair on the back of her neck rising in response to some overwhelming sense of dread. She could only imagine what was actually taking place. "How are they doing?" John said suddenly, and he looked in their direction. "What are they doing? Why don't they take him down?" "I don't think this is that kind of fight," Monica reminded him. "Besides, you just showed us why that wouldn't work." There was movement in the trees, first to one side, then another. Realization dawned on her, and she pulled John into cover behind one tree. "What?" he asked, his tone slightly testy. His expression suggested that he was still coming out of whatever cloud of confusion that Fell had caught him in. "I think Fell's called in the reinforcements," Monica said, pressing her back against the tree and facing the opposite direction from the one John was facing. "We've got company." John turned to ask her what she meant, but then he cursed and raised his weapon, firing a shot towards one of the onrushing cultists. The shot tagged a tree just to one side of the attacker, forcing the man to duck for cover. "How many on your side?" Monica asked, grouping two shots closely in one direction, then taking aim several feet to the right. "I've got at least half a dozen, and they've got much better cover." "Maybe ten," John replied, "but it's hard to tell. But no return fire so far." "Here either," Monica agreed. "Keep them contained, then?" "We cover them as long as possible," he answered, nodding his head towards the eerily silent struggle unfolding nearby. "Shoot to wound if they don't stop coming, and let's hope these two can end this fast." Both of them popped off several more shots, laying down a suppressing sweep of rounds in as wide an arc as possible. The tactic appeared to work, keeping the bulk of the cultists at bay, but each round increased the possibility of a wayward casualty. The fact that neither of them could clearly see their opponents made the situation even more disturbing, because shooting a man or woman in self-defense was one thing. Killing teenagers, like the ones that had attacked John and Craig, was another story. Even in self-defense, it was a heart-rending choice. And Monica couldn't help but recall the choice she had made with Rhiannon, compounding the fear. Firing the last round in her clip, she pulled the next one out, looking over her shoulder towards Craig and McShane. Craig was standing up to the pressure well, though his body was tense and shaking slightly. But McShane was fading fast, close to collapsing. Whatever the man had planned, she hoped it happened quickly. She caught movement to one side from the corner of her eye, and turned in just enough time to fire at an onrushing older man, bringing him down with a shot to the leg. "They're almost on us!" she cried, and from the increasing rapidity of John's shots, she assumed he was dealing with the same thing. "I'm almost out!" John said seconds later. "I think this is it!" He fired one last shot, and then tossed the gun to the ground as he rose, sliding the Ka-Bar from its sheath on his belt. Monica rose to her feet as well. "Something must be happening. They must be close, or they wouldn't be rushing in to stop it!" John didn't answer. Two men, barely over the age of twenty, came at him in silence, knives sweeping at John's face and throat with an untrained abandon. John closed on one them, snapping a kick into the man's knee as his elbow crushed into the man's chest, sending the man reeling. In the same motion, John slashed out with his blade, catching his second opponent with a deep gash on the arm. Both men fell to the ground, and John stepped back towards Monica, pressing his back against hers. "I'm out," she said finally, dropping her own gun and reluctantly pulling out her own knife. She had been trained in its use, of course, like all agents, but she was less inclined to fight in close quarters. John had seen this kind of action more than a few times over the course of his career, though more in the service than in the Bureau. While she had seen her share of less than pleasant confrontations, dealing with a mob of onrushing cultists without a gun or sufficient backup was not her status quo. "Stand with your back to me," John reminded her. "Remain as close to me as you can." Then they were too busy to speak, each fending off a lunge or swing from one or another dark figure emerging from the darkness. More than once, she felt him press back hard on her back for support, but they held fast, adjusting their position to keep the fight away from Craig and McShane. More than once, she felt something catch on her jacket, but with the cold, it was hard to tell if anything had made it deep enough to wound. A few scant minutes passed, and then the wave broke, leaving them standing, breathing hard, hear the center of the clearing. She looked down, checking to be sure that she had managed not to seriously wound anyone, and saw a slight trickle of blood down one arm. Looking back at John, she could see that he was likewise wounded, but nothing serious yet. "We're not going to last much longer," she said, noting how her grip on the hilt of her blade was tight and unfeeling. "I know," John replied. His voice was strangely even, as though he held no regret at the thought. "They had us weakened to begin with. The weather, the cold...and we're badly outnumbered." Monica was about to say something more, but her unsure words were cut off as she looked out into the trees and saw dozens of cultists waiting there, weapons in hand. By the way John went rigid behind her, she knew that he was looking at the same thing. She looked over at Craig and McShane, hoping against hope. But McShane was down on one knee, Kirsten on her knees now trying to help him stay upright, and Craig was nearly at his own end. The cultists began to move forward, slowly but with purpose, and John raised his hands, preparing his defense. "Here we go," he said wearily, and before she could respond, three young men came running at each of them. Monica clenched her jaw and raised her good arm, just as a much larger figure came bearing down on her. And then their opponents dropped to the ground, their hands gripping their heads in agony. "Now!" she heard McShane cry out, and she and John turned just in time to see Craig leap towards a stumbling Fell, twin daggers in his hands. Craig was on the man in a whirl of motion, ripping the edge of one blade across Fell's eyes, plunging the second dagger deep into the man's chest. The driving attack forced Fell to the ground, and with a fluid motion, Craig sank the first dagger into Fell's neck. The ferocity of the attack was stunning, and the combined trauma of the combat and carnage nearly made her ill. But she reminded herself that she had seen much worse, and all things being equal, it could have been them. Still, it was cold comfort. John was still breathing hard, several shallow wounds showing on his hands and face. He looked over at Craig, who was staggering back away from Fell with a look of concentration and determination on his face. Monica was confused for a moment, and then remembered what they had been told. McShane was already preparing, holding Kirsten tightly to his chest. But his eyes were on John, and she realized what was about to happen. "Oh, shit," she breathed, and before she could warn John what was coming, something bright and overwhelming struck her behind her eyes, and there was nothing but darkness. The shock of separation was nothing compared to the shock of having been brought to this moment, of failing to take an accurate accounting of the ability and persistence of his adversaries. They laid before him now, the four that had placed themselves in the way of his righteous path, preventing him from his rightful legacy as the next to lead and control the desires and dreams of those bound and trapped within the physical trappings of flesh and force. There was Thomas, his stalker, the wolf in sheep's clothing, hiding in plain sight until the shepherd had come to lead him to his eventual slaughter. Ah, then he had shown his teeth! Striking out and waking up all the pretty little sleepers. Now he was protecting his own flock, herding his own sheep, the least of which being the cow in his arms, the one that had done such wonderful and skillful work, his happy little moaning missionary. She was like an empty set to him now, completely given over to the new shepherd, unaware or unconcerned that her fate would be the same. Would it not have been better to serve the coming of the next messiah? These two, he knew, were lost to him, closed away from his touch, more useless than even the weak children fallen to the dirt, wallowing in the mud like sows and cows and worms. No, the others were far more promising; full of nooks and crannies and spaces where he could slip and slide inside! He struck at the female first, hoping to find something of weakness and doubt that he could use and twist and stoke. But the very first flash through her mind left him sickened and distraught. Oh, this one was lost as well! Another believer in the tapestry of life or whatever the latest fantasy was, another sheep for the wolf! But time was of the essence! And the female was ready for him, knew that he was coming. She would fight, and struggling was something he had no intention of doing. This was the night, sure as eggs was eggs! And he would need someone able to take these three sheep out of his sight, take them out of the fight, so their souls could ignite! The male! Ah, now here was a catch! Tied up and twisted by his own doubts and demons! What difference, then, to give form and will to those demons, to let the animal rise and the man fall into line! Unable to trust the wolf, or even himself. How precious this gift! And such irony, that this one had all of the mush and filth in his head, like the others, but chose not to believe. Denied it as he should! And so this one, this supposed "son of God", would become just that, the vessel of the next messiah, come to lead his flock to the new Jerusalem! There was a spark of pain just behind his eyes, as if something had struck him, sending the fragile bones of his nose cavity into his brain. He almost expected the quick rush of darkness that would come with death, or that bright white tunnel from all those stories, but there was suddenly just darkness and pain. Something told him that he had fallen to the ground, that he was lying in the cold mud. But he found that he no longer cared. Because he was no longer alone. Something was flittering there, in that space behind his eyes, washing and swimming within the pain, carving out space for itself. There was the most faint awareness that this was not normal, that something was trying to steal away his control, his will, but any attempt to catch hold of the flittering nothing left him without reward. John...John Doggett... He heard the voice in his head, clearly as he would his own thoughts, and for a moment he pushed it away, trying with all of his might. But it remained there, gathering strength and purpose. Where is your strength, John? Is it lost with your conviction? "Leave me alone," he cried out in his own mind. "Get out of my damn head!" But it remained, laughing in the seeming distance, pulling up all of his doubts, laying them bare. All of the ways that McShane had manipulated him, telling him the lies that he was so willing to believe, starting with that overwhelming sense of innocence. Had it been like a game to him, bringing in someone with no sense of the dangers involved, sending him into the slaughter? Letting those five young people die in horrible, terrible ways, for his own sick and twisted reasons? That is the wolf for you, John! He lied to you, treated you like one of those sheep, told you what you needed to hear to do exactly what he wanted. Told you just enough truth so you would follow him blindly into the depths of hell! And that was the worst of it, he knew. He had allowed himself to trust in everything that McShane had told him, all the claims of standing on the high and moral ground. He had forgotten how easily trust could be twisted into naivet. McShane had capitalized on that basic trust that Doggett was willing to give, banking on the benefit of the doubt. How can you trust anyone, John? When you know now, more than ever, that you cannot trust in what seems to be truth, and what appears to be the lie? Your world is a world built on trusting others, on believing in the basic humanity of man. But how can you be certain that there even is such a thing, now that you know there is so much more? He saw flashes of the last year, images of those fateful days in Arizona after Mulder's disappearance, memories of Tipit and the dark dreams he had experienced, the formless void of those moments before he awoke in the lair of the sin-eater, watching Mulder recover from the strange and unknown illness that had infested his supposedly dead yet reborn body. All of them points of intersection on a tapestry of lines that Craig's words had woven. It seemed so clear now, but if that were true... Yes! You see it now, don't you? You could have saved him, John. You could have accepted what you were, what you could have been. You could have seen it all, stopped it from happening! But you refused to believe, didn't you? You refused to believe what has now been shown to be true. He felt himself slipping, falling into the darkness of that abyss. He was like a drowning man, sliding under the darkness that was spreading like fire through his mind, trapping him and pulling him under. You know it's true! You could have stopped it. You could have had it all. But you were weak, weak for your son, and he died horribly and alone because you were unable to simply let go and believe. You were responsible, John! You were responsible... Faced with the guilt, he curled into himself, hid from the pain. But everywhere he looked, that fatal image remained, the body of his son consumed in the fire that he could not quench. Ashes, ashes, we all fall down...down and down and down... "No," he whispered, and with everything that remained, he pushed away the image, forced it from his sight. You know it's true, John. Accept it! "No," he said, more strongly. "It's a lie. It has to be a lie!" He pushed back against the darkness, driving it back. If McShane had lied to him, lied about his plans, his intentions, his motives, then why should Craig have been any less a target for lies? And he already knew that Craig had been yet another pawn in the game. Why should McShane have told him the entire story? Of course he wouldn't! But the science, John...you have heard the science. The world accepts and fosters the very things you reject. Would you reject the world? "The science came from him, too," he cried out to the darkness. "You want me to question McShane? Challenge his honesty? Then I question everything he wanted me to believe! If so much of what he said was a deception, then maybe the science is just as much of a lie." John...it is science...it is reality. How... 'I don't know that," he called, gaining strength and resolve. "Maybe it's true. If so, then I'll face that in its own time. Until then, it might just be another lie, another illusion that someone wants me to believe... and I reject it!" But I'm here, John. If you accept me, then how can you reject all of the rest? "I can't," he admitted. But there was a strength behind the words. "That just means that you must be an illusion, too...something else that someone needs me to believe. And I reject you!" With everything he had, he sought to silence the voice that was not his own, driving it from his thoughts and mind without doubt or hesitation. The darkness held for a moment, sending him the images and memories of pain, struggling in vain to overwhelm him with guilt and doubt. But doubt was something he could no longer entertain. He had allowed himself a time of weakness, a day of misplaced conscience. But those feelings had been built on a house of cards. And he no longer had the luxury of those doubts, not if he chose to survive and live on to honor his son's memory. "I wasn't responsible," he muttered, repeating it again and again, until the only voice he heard was his own. Monica was the first to notice, as John opened his eyes and blinked frantically, as water dripping from her hair onto his face. For a moment, there was the hint of something more behind his intense blue eyes, something that made her wonder if he had lost the struggle. But then he was looking back at her, and she knew that it was truly him. "I told you," McShane said, kneeling down beside her. "It's him. He rejected it. And I forced it back through the gate. It's over." Monica looked around, at the various wounded now picking themselves off the ground or calling for help, the general confusion and shame on their faces. If she could have felt more chilled, she might have in that moment. How many people would never remember what had happened to them, only that there were times in their lives that they could not explain? And how many of them would have memories and pasts like Kirsten, entire years that they could never completely forget or forgive themselves for? "No, Thomas," Monica said wearily, her eyes never straying from the scene. "I don't think this will ever truly be over." McShane looked as though he might argue, but then he stopped himself, simply nodding. John stirred, and she saw him looking up at her, reaching with one weak hand for hers. She took it, grasping it tightly. "Monica," he rasped. "I wasn't responsible." His voice became more insistent. "You understand? I wasn't responsible." Nothing more needed to be said. Chapter Nine December 1, 2000 "I know what you're saying, sir," Doggett said, holding the cell phone in one hand as he rummaged through his bag with the other. "But the fact is, the report ought to be fairly simple. Things turned out to be a little more straightforward than we had originally thought." "What about the local law enforcement issues?" Skinner asked, his voice more than a little strained. "There was some talk about pressing charges against McShane and Craig Walden, but that seems to have been cleared up." Doggett smirked at his bag, and started taking items out, rummaging a little more. "I doubt that either the families or the department really want to deal with an official investigation into the cult activity around here." "Sounds about right," Skinner observed wryly. "Not too different from what we were looking at." Smiling to himself, he pulled the small black book out of his bag. "I think my report should cover everything we need," he said with confidence. "I'll be running it past Agent Reyes before the end of the day." "What are your plans for wrapping this up?" "There are some last minute items that need to be attended to," Doggett said as he flipped open the book to "D". "Agent Reyes will be going back to New Orleans tonight. I'll drive her to the airport, and head out from there." "Last minute items?" Skinner asked, his tone wary. "Just making sure that we won't be coming back to deal with any legal issues," Doggett said evasively. "Glad to hear it," Skinner replied. "Just so you know, the Deputy Director was rather pleased to hear that things ended up going smoothly up there, despite the time it took to get some results. He wants to see you first thing in the morning." His smile could be felt through the connection. "Be in my office about an hour before that, all right?" "I hear you," Doggett agreed. "See you then." He cleared the line, and then placed the phone on the table next to the two faxes he had received that morning. He stared at the page in his book for a moment. He wasn't sure that he wanted to make the call, but something inside of him told him that he had to, for some sense of closure. He had spent a great deal of the morning dealing with the thoughts of his son, especially after he had gotten the faxes from Mulder and Scully. But there were still some lingering thoughts for someone else that he needed to work through. He tapped the surface of the table for a few seconds, and then picked up the phone, dialing the number on the page. He felt slightly foolish as he waited for her to pick up, as though he were a schoolboy calling for his first date. He was amazed to discover that he was still able to feel that way. "Hello?" His mouth was suddenly dry, but he stammered out, "Hi...it's John. John Doggett." The woman's voice was warm with surprise and delight. "Well, hello there. This is an unexpected pleasure. I wasn't sure when I would hear from you again." "I wasn't either," he said, as the memories of their last moments together passed through his mind. "I don't have much time to talk. I just wanted...I needed to hear your voice, that's all." There was a slight hesitation, and then she asked, "John, is everything all right? Did something happen?" "No, no, everything's fine," he replied, forcing his tone to remain light. "Just something that reminded me of you, that's all. And I wanted to make sure everything was still all right." "Are you sure?" Mo said, gently pressing him. "I'm sure," he repeated, glancing at the clock. Monica would be stopping by any minute now. "I have to go. It was good hearing your voice again, Mo. Take care of yourself." "You too, John," she said. It was obvious that she had been more than a little confused, but thankfully, she had let it slide. He tossed the book back into his bag, wishing that he could have spoken to her a bit longer, told her just a little more. But that would have led to questions that he was not prepared to answer. And he had the distinct feeling that he was going to have enough questions to answer in the next few days. He was reading over the fax from Scully for perhaps the seventh time when there was a knock at his door, and Monica walked in with her own bag hanging from her shoulder. Most of the wounds from the night before had turned out to be little more than deep scratches in the light of day, but there were enough of them on her hands and arms to make easy explanations hard to believe. He thought about his own matching set, and sighed, thankful that it had not been worse. Even the glancing wound from the gunshot was little more than a slight burn. "I'm just about ready," Doggett said, gesturing at his bag. "I told Craig that we would meet him in the lobby, and then go over to see Thomas and Kirsten on the way to the airport." Monica raised an eyebrow in surprise. "I thought everything had been cleared up this morning." "Mostly," he agreed. "But there are a couple of things I wanted to settle first." "I understand," Monica said. She looked at the pages in his hand. "Is that the reply from Agent Scully?" Doggett nodded. "She seems to have covered the subject rather thoroughly," he said, passing it to Monica with a smirk. "Though it certainly couldn't beat Mulder's conclusion." He pointed to the other fax, which was one page with rather large writing in capital letters. INTERESTING THEORIES, AGENT DOGGETT. PS: IT's A VIRUS!!! Monica broke into a laugh, and then started reading the response from Scully. It did not take her long to figure out where the response was going, as the look on her face became somewhat troubled. When she was finished, she handed it back to Doggett, shaking her head. "Well, it was thorough," she murmured. "I'd say that as much as I needed to hear that, and as much as it may have put some of my personal fears to rest, there is someone else who deserves to see that." Doggett folded it in half, sliding it into his jacket pocket. "Let me guess," Monica said as he grabbed his own bag. "Is this your way of getting the last word?" "Just a small repayment," Doggett replied. Agent Doggett: I was able to review the information that you sent regarding the theories connecting quantum theory, elements of cosmology, and various references to Native and Celtic folklore into a theory of intelligence as a function apart from the physical human body. Mulder did not explain the source of this theory, or the context in which it was offered, but I suspect that might be for the best. While Mulder was largely enthusiastic about the theory, despite taking a somewhat predictable point of view regarding mechanism, I regret that I cannot share the same level of confidence in the theory you have described. Setting aside the references to Native and Celtic folklore, which were indeed accurate, if a bit selective, the various pieces of these particular and peculiar puzzle can only fit together if certain uncertainties and assumptions are ignored or dismissed. They found Craig sitting near one of the large windows in the lobby, watching the rain as it continued to fall outside. The storm had struck its greatest blow during the night, but some showers lingered in the region. It was a constant reminder of the ordeal they had shared the night before. Monica had been concerned about John's mental well-being all morning, when they had been dealing with the remnants of the local officials in the wake of Fell's demise. He had been slightly unsure, distracted. While he had dealt with the issues calmly, speaking effectively in Craig's defense when the time had come to decide whether or not charges would be made, he had been strangely quiet when the issue of McShane's accidental killing of Davis had been discussed. In the end, no charges had been filed, but they had noted the lack of support for McShane. Things had changed dramatically in the hours that had passed since that meeting. John was far more confident, acting with the authority and assurance that she had come to expect over the years. If nothing else, Scully's response to the science that Craig had offered had given John enough solid ground to restore his well-worn skepticism. There was a calm quality to his actions now, and while that was a welcome change from what she had seen in him the day before, she could not help but think that it was a step in the wrong direction. On the other hand, much of John's crisis of faith seemed to have fallen onto Craig's shoulders. The young man's usual grin was nowhere to be seen, replaced by an expression of deep worry and contemplation. He had spent a good part of his life dealing with the dark and decadent practices of his beloved sister, then following in the footsteps of a man who had seemed to be working to end the twisted plans of a mad spirit. But in the space of a few hours, he had discovered that his sole friend and mentor was capable of acts and decisions that he could not reconcile with the ideal he had carried in his heart. Even worse, he had been forced to kill a man without reservation. Setting all of that aside, he was also dealing with the fact that his driving purpose in life had come to an end. Unlike McShane, he had no compulsion to remain in the area to watch over the gate. He had been the dutiful soldier, the willing servant, only to find that he did not know what he was supposed to do now that the battle was won. Adding so much revelation and guilt to the equation had to be overwhelming. And now John was planning to deliver the final blow. "Craig," she called out, getting the young man's attention. "How are you holding up?" "I'm all right," he said, though his voice was less certain than his words. "I'm still trying to figure it all out." "I think you know that I sympathize," John said, setting his bag down and sitting in a chair across from Craig. "I was right where you are this time yesterday...questioning the decisions I had made, rethinking my assumptions, taking responsibility for things...things I could not change." "Because of the things I told you," Craig reminded him. "Maybe the only thing that Thomas told me that wasn't a calculated lie." "I wouldn't go that far," Monica said, sitting in a chair to Doggett's right. "I think he truly felt that he was acting in your best interests, being the best friend he could. I think his reasons for teaching you how to use the gifts you have been given were genuine." "He needed me to fight that thing," Craig said, shaking his head. "If I hadn't shown the same level of potential that my sister had, I doubt he would have bothered to give my welfare a second thought." "I don't know if we'll ever know that," John interjected. "And to be honest, I don't really know what I could suggest for your future. But I do think you should see what another agent in the Bureau, someone educated in the subjects you were telling me about, had to say about the information Thomas chose to give you." He pulled the fax from Agent Scully out of his pocket, handing it to Craig without further explanation. Craig looked it over, then began reading it more carefully. Moments later, when he was finished, he seemed to re-read some parts again. If there was any reaction at all, it was a deepening of the sadness behind his eyes. "I guess that says it all," Craig said finally. He handed it back towards John. "Thanks." John returned it to his pocket. "Again, I'm sorry that it turned out this way." "We were both used, Agent Doggett," Craig reminded him. "The only difference was how long. I have nine years of my life to make up for. Can you say the same?" Monica saw the pain behind John's eyes as he answered. "Maybe I can, Craig. There are times I think that I've wasted the past several years, when I find myself dealing with the same pain and memories that have been haunting me every day. But maybe that's not the way to look at it." He smiled gently. "Maybe it's about living up to the ideals and promise that Luke represented for just as long a time." John stood, pulling the strap of his bag over his shoulder. "No matter what else you might be thinking, Craig, remember the principles you were fighting for all those years. Don't think about how it ended." He turned to leave as Monica stood. "Agent Doggett," Craig called, standing as well. "Have you been able to do that? Stop thinking about how it ended?" Monica could see how John forced himself to maintain composure, as he turned to answer. "No," he said, his voice filled with renewed regret. "No, I haven't." Several versions of quantum theory discuss the idea of nonlocality, the concept of physical states being affected by a distant and seemingly unconnected cause. This idea was more or less proven by Bell's Theorem. There have been several papers and books written in recent years attempting to show that this property of fundamental particles is proof that there is some pervasive connection between all particles. However, Bell's Theorem only proves that nonlocality exists. It does not attribute a cause for this phenomenon, nor does it attempt to interpret this property or apply it to the physical world. Many of the papers attempting to do just that over the years have been proven in error or deemed inconclusive. Specifically, while the notion of an infinite number of quantum states has been a basic assumption of quantum theory, there is no conclusive evidence to show that these infinite quantum states are "entangled", connecting two particles at a distance through the nonlocality of Bell's Theorem. Current experiments have been unable to provide a solid case for proving or disproving the theory of infinite "entanglement". The apartment on Centennial Avenue had been badly damaged when the police had come to abduct Kirsten, but the weather that had followed had dealt an even greater blow. At the very least, thousands of dollars worth of repairs would be needed before it might be restored to its original condition. Many of the items in the home had been destroyed, and others would need a great deal of care to be reclaimed. In the meantime, McShane, Kirsten Walden, and their daughter Rhiannon were staying in another apartment on the other side of town. They found McShane sitting on the back porch, watching the rain fall as he waiting for them to arrive. "I had hoped you would leave without making more out of this than is necessary," McShane said as they walked up to him. "But I should have known that you would need to confront me." "You didn't know for certain?" Doggett asked sarcastically. He adjusted his belt, his fingers lingering by his cell phone before sliding into his pocket. "Of course I did," McShane replied, smiling up at them. "That has nothing to do with what I might have wished for." He gestured towards the back door. "Kirsten and Rhiannon are inside, Agent Reyes. I suspect you would like to see them for yourself. And John and I must talk." Monica hesitated, not at all pleased, but relented when Doggett nodded that she should go inside and see to the others. Doggett waited to say anything until after the door closed, and then he turned to McShane, his eyes full of anger. "You used me," Doggett hissed, taking the nearest empty chair and pulling it directly in front of McShane. "You had this planned from the very beginning, didn't you? When exactly did I become a part of your little scheme?" McShane stared into Doggett's eyes for a long moment, and then looked back at the rain, sighing. "You may not have heard of Fox Mulder before taking on his case, Agent Doggett, but among certain circles, he is quite well known. And the X-Files are a part of public record. Many of the reports and findings have been released through the Freedom of Information Act. "I will admit that I had planned to contact Mulder, when I first put this plan in motion. Mulder would have been the one with the proper background in the ritualistic crimes, while Agent Scully's personality would have been perfect for the role of the begrudging skeptic. The combination, you see, was the key. One to believe, understand, and interpret...and the other to provide the perfect trap for the enemy when its host was mortally wounded." McShane turned back to Doggett, a knowing smile on his face. "But then Mulder was abducted, and you were brought into the X-Files. That presented me with a slight problem. I understood their dynamic, but you were far more skeptical than Agent Scully ever was. And Agent Scully made a very unconvincing Mulder, you must admit." McShane leaned forward. "You, John Doggett, turned out to be even more perfect than Agent Scully ever would have been." "Perfect?" Doggett snapped back. "Your perfect trap?" "That's right," McShane confirmed. "You planned this from the beginning, long before this month," Doggett repeated. "You let them all die, let them be part of the rituals, because you were unwilling to make your move when it was strong enough to fight back." "Of course," McShane said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "What sort of fool do you take me for, John? You don't win if you fail to develop the best strategy and commit to it long before the battle is waged. And you also need to be able to adjust to the little surprises that come along, plan for the worst possible contingency." He pointed at Doggett. "You came alone. That was a surprise. I had not heard that Agent Scully was on leave. But your mind was wide open, John, from the minute you walked in that door. I knew how to make you believe in my innocence, saw the recent memory of your work with Agent Reyes. I knew that she would be the one to lead you where I needed you to go. And so I made sure you considered getting her involved from the very beginning." "It worked beautifully," McShane said with a grin. "She walked in, and her believer's mind was just as easy to work with. The rest was simple. You did exactly what I wanted, and when I sent you to Kirsten and Craig, you were both ready to believe what they had to say." McShane stopped Doggett before he could interject. "You were never meant to believe, Agent Doggett. Not completely. You were always meant to have those lingering doubts. I saw the conflict in your heart, plainly there in your mind, and I made sure that whatever Craig told you, he would end up taking you to that house at the very moment Theresa McMillan was being led to her death. To make sure you would end up hearing all those reasons to believe, but still be reminded of the exact reason why you cannot allow yourself to believe." "Those damn ravens again," Doggett said, remembering how they had been "watching" that night. "Craig never knew?" "Of course not," McShane said with a roll of his eyes. "I've been training him, but a part of that training is a kind of selective conditioning. He had no idea that I was suggesting certain actions." Doggett sat back, shaking his head. "So all of that was part of the plan? Forcing me to what...face my demons?" "Not face them to win," McShane replied. "Face them to bring that conflict between your rational mind and your emotions to the forefront, and then continue to plant the seeds of doubt until you didn't know what to believe. By the time we arrived at the gate, you were willing to believe what was happening around you, faced with all of the science and spiritual elements that your fellow agent validated with her own decisions and interpretations." McShane hooked a thumb over his shoulder. "I needed to stay strong enough to protect Kirsten. Craig needed to be the one to kill Fell, to release the enemy and force it to find another host. Craig would have been just strong enough to keep it out. I made sure of that as well. And Monica was enough of a believer to understand what was coming, and keep it out." He pointed a finger at Doggett's chest. "Your conflict was like a beacon for it. Enough of a believer to accept its existence and its strength, conflicted enough to be victimized. But it couldn't understand the depth of your denial. In the end, it was so weak after driving the ritual forward, being forced from Fell, and then fighting and losing to you...well, it was very easy for me to finish it then." Doggett was still for a moment, and then cursed under his breath. "And that was your plan? To use the woman you say you love, to risk the mother of your child...and that child... all so you could have things your way?" He looked in McShane's eyes. "You forced me to consider the kind of pain and suffering that someone I care for would experience if I failed. Knowing that, you still planned to let that happen to Kirsten?" McShane sighed, looking back towards the rain. "It is my duty to protect the gate and those within its influence. That is what I was made for, John." He looked back to Doggett. "As part of your duty as a federal agent, would you hesitate to make those same sacrifices? Didn't you make that same choice when you working the streets of New York, working in the FBI?" "Of course," Doggett acknowledged. "The difference was, and is, that I never believed that my choice gave me the right to use people as pawnsto fulfill that duty." "Then you are as blind as you are in denial," McShane said with a calm smile. Then he shook his head. "The fact is, I told you the truth when I told you I was not planning on letting the ritual come to pass. I knew they would try to kill me at the station, as the sixth victim. I had seen the list at Suicide. But as I said before, Agent Doggett, the wise strategist always has a contingency plan." He pointed his finger at Doggett again. "You survived. Kirsten is healing well. And Craig and I are still here to help this community heal." "A community that suffered for years because you decided not to act," Doggett pressed. "What are a few years, when they will have all of eternity to heal?" McShane rebuffed. Doggett waved that off. "They don't know or believe that, Thomas. Maybe you're too far gone to realize that, or remember what normal life is like. But there are hundreds of people out there who are going to be facing the reality of what they have done for almost twenty years. Some of them have been doing these things, those horrible and terrible things, for their entire lives! How are they going to forgive themselves, Thomas? When they don't know why they did what they did? It's not as though you can just explain it to them." McShane nodded. "I considered that. With the enemy gone, with the gate secure, I can help make things better. They will never know. But I can help them come to terms, even help them forget." "Craig was right," Doggett said coldly. "He said you were changing. That you were just like them." He stood, moving towards the door. "If you truly believe that messing with the lives of these people even more, guiding them towards your version of happiness, is the right thing...how is that any different, Thomas?" McShane shook his head. "You don't understand. But there are those who do." "Like Craig?" Doggett said sarcastically. "Yes," McShane said with conviction. "He knows what needs to be done. He knows he will never be a sentinel. But he is strong enough, aware enough, to do the work that needs to be done. He will do the right thing." "Yeah," Doggett said, his smirk turning into a wry smile. "I think he will." And then he reached to his belt, pulling the open cell phone off its clip and showing its display to McShane, making sure the man knew that their conversation had been monitored the entire time from inside the apartment, that Kirsten and Craig had heard it all. McShane paled, and for the first time, Doggett saw genuine shock and anger in the man's eyes. "What have you done? How dare you! How dare you interfere in our-" "In your lives?" Doggett asked calmly, returning the cell phone to his belt, cutting the connection as he walked towards the door. "Consider this a lesson in your own limited awareness, Thomas. And maybe a little taste of that personal cost you dismissed." McShane stood, his hands clenched into tight fists, and for a moment Doggett wondered if there would be violence. But then McShane forced himself to a semblance of calm, walking towards the door. Without a word, he walked past Doggett and pushed his way into the apartment, knowing that his family was waiting for him. Doggett followed him, closing the door behind them. When they walked into the living room, they saw Kirsten sitting on the floor with Rhiannon, absently playing with her daughter, Craig standing over both of them with a slight smile on his lips. For a moment, Doggett wondered if Monica had chosen not to go along with his plan, after having argued with him against it. But then he saw the stain of tears on Kirsten's cheeks, and realized that Craig was looking at his sister and niece as though for the last time. McShane apparently noticed it as well, and he looked away from his daughter to look into Craig's accusing eyes. "So you're leaving?" "I am," Craig said with conviction. He looked back down at Rhiannon. "I thought of staying. I considered staying for Kirsten, and for Rhiannon. To make sure that little girl had the chance to grow up normally. But that would still be reacting to you, doing things your way. And I need to go find a life for myself, away from what happened here." McShane did not even try to argue. Instead, he looked towards Kirsten "And you? What are you planning to do?" "I've been thinking about that ever since you admitted what you had done," Kirsten said, not taking her eyes off Rhiannon. "I thought about what you said, about how you could help the people here find a normal life. I thought about how much you've helped me, and I have to admit, it is something you could do. But if you did, then I'd have to wonder why you helped me, and why you stayed with me all this time." "I love you," McShane said, his voice full of passion. "I love you, and I love Rhiannon. You know that." "I know the man who lived in that apartment and slept in my bed," Kirsten replied. Finally she turned to look at him, and there was an unexpected steel behind her eyes. "I don't know the man who risked my life and our daughter's future." McShane visibly sagged. "Then you're leaving?" Kirsten shook her head. "No. At least, not today. I want to see if the man I knew still remains. But don't think I won't leave in a second if I have any reason to think our lives are in danger." McShane nodded, a relieved smile on his lips. Then he turned a cold stare towards Doggett. "Are you quite finished?" "I think we're done here," Doggett said with a satisfied smile. "Then kindly leave my town," McShane said with an identical, but much less sincere, smile. "Unless you intend to continue the investigation?" "No, we're leaving, as you know," Monica interjected. "And you're not the only one who knows better than to push the issue," Doggett reminded him. "Despite what you may think, I have learned a few lessons here and there. There will be no further investigation." "Then please leave," McShane repeated, his smile gone from his face. "Now." Doggett and Monica stepped towards the back door, but Craig called to them. "Please, wait one moment. I wanted to give you something, Agent Doggett." Doggett turned, and Craig handed him a piece of folded paper. "What is it?" Doggett said, opening it and scanning the words. "I thought about what you said, back at the hotel," the younger man, a trace of his old smile returning. "I'm going to leave and go out there, somewhere, and find out what life brings me. Maybe I'll find something worth fighting for. Maybe I won't. Maybe the search will be enough." He pointed to the paper. "I intend to live by those words. I thought you should see them. Maybe they'll mean something to you." Doggett glanced at the words again, smiled to Craig, and then slipped the paper into his jacket. "Thanks. Good luck." "Maybe we'll meet again sometime," Craig said. "Take care." Doggett nodded his thanks again, and then walked out of the apartment with Monica in silence.
Besides the liberties taken with the interpretations of current quantum mechanics, the theory you mention relies on a concept known as superstring cosmology. In this conception of the universe, there are at least ten dimensions in the universe, and all but the familiar four of space and time are folded into each other in a way that makes them undetectable to our current science. While this theory has been able to explain the disparities between Einstein's general relativity and quantum mechanics, by its very nature it cannot be proven by conventional scientific tests, and by the same token, cannot make predictions based on a clear extension of current scientific knowledge. As with the theory of quantum "entanglement", superstring cosmology cannot be proven or disproven. It lies within the realm of scientific conjecture. Taking this into account, if neither quantum "entanglement" and superstring cosmology cannot be deemed conclusive, any theory based on taking those concepts as solid fact must also be considered questionable and unproven. I hope that this is the answer you were looking for, but if not, then I hope that this does not complicate your case more than necessary. Good luck, Agent Doggett. D.S. For much of the ride to the Newark airport, there was only the beat of the rain against the windshield. Finally, as Doggett veered onto the offramp from the Turnpike, Monica looked up from the copy of his report that she had been reviewing. "I can't believe you're going to turn this in," she muttered, tossing it onto the back seat with disgust. "How can you pretend that none of it happened?" "None of what?" Doggett replied, followed by a long sigh. "When all is said and done, think about what we can actually prove happened. What we actually saw, what we actually can say we know we experienced. McShane said it himself. He was a master manipulator." "That doesn't mean that you can say that none of it happened," Monica objected. Doggett checked one of the giant signs over the access road, and then took a sharp turn towards the terminal they needed. "Some of it I mentioned," he pointed out. "But only the things we know we actually saw, the things we have some kind of proof for. Otherwise, we weren't left with much." "What about those shadows that we saw moving like they were going to attack us? Or the way the trees seemed to thicken in certain places?" "Some kind of suggestion, planted by McShane," Doggett said evenly. "We didn't see those things until after he mentioned them, and after he got Craig to say it too. As far as the trees go, well, it's easy to notice odd things like that in the woods." "It was a park, not woods," Monica said with a frustrated tone. "I just can't believe you're going to claim that this was some kind of conflict between two competing cults, with one trying to disrupt the rituals of another. It's dishonest." "It's a rational explanation based on the facts," Doggett countered. "All of the murdered teens were killed under circumstances that suggest some form of mental manipulation, maybe some kind of post-hypnotic suggestion. Fell had his ritual symbols, McShane had his. We were manipulated to help McShane stop Fell's ritual, in the same way that Fell manipulated members of the local law enforcement and prominent members of the community." "It's glossing over the truth and you know it," Monica replied. The car came to a stop in front of one of the large sliding doors at the terminal. When Doggett didn't respond, Monica shook her head and opened the door, stepping into the rain. Doggett popped the trunk where her bag was, and got out of the car to help her. Moving his own bag and pulling out hers, he handed it to her, looking her in the eye. "I know what you're saying, Monica," he said softly, some of the pain of the days before returning to his eyes. "But the fact is, when all is said and done, only so much can go into the official report." "Because you're afraid to face it?" Monica challenged. "Because that's the way the X-Files work," Doggett countered. He flashed her a smile. "Like I said, I have learned some things along the way." Monica looked as though she wanted to press her argument, but then she relented. "I hear you. Just don't think this is the end of it." "It wouldn't be you if it were," Doggett said, his grin widening. Monica laughed, despite herself, pulling the strap of her bag over her shoulder. "Look, call me if there's any more trouble, OK? You need me, you call." "I will," Doggett promised. "Take care." Monica turned and walked through the sliding doors, looking back to wave once before disappearing into the crowd. For a moment he wondered if he should check to see if her flight was delayed or canceled due to the weather, considering whether he should stay and keep her company if it had been, but then he remembered his promise to Skinner. There were several meetings with his name at the top of the guest list, and a long drive and a longer night before then. Having had enough of the rain, Doggett got back into the car and drove off into the approaching night. December 2, 2000 "So this was some kind of pissing contest between two hypnotists?" Deputy Director Kersh looked over the edge of the file folder, waiting for Doggett to reply. "Basically, that's correct," Doggett said with an apologetic shrug. "It's not uncommon, according to Agent Reyes, for a cult leader to possess abilities that appear to be some form of mind control or brainwashing. We saw something similar in the Tipit case earlier in the year. Under the right conditions, cult members would be willing to do some of the most disturbing things, even kill themselves or allow themselves to be killed." Kersh nodded absently. "Agent Reyes...she was the expert in ritualistic crime?" "Yes, sir," Doggett confirmed. "I've consulted her in the past." "Yes, I recall," Kersh muttered. "And though I'm not entirely pleased about the fact that you called her in on this, given the sensitivity of the assignment, I can see why you made that call." He tossed the file onto his desk with a smile, one Doggett had seen before with the same insincerity. "You know Mulder would have never had the presence of mind to actually call in an expert on the subject." "I'm sure you're right," Doggett replied evenly. He glanced at the file. "Was there anything else, sir?" Kersh regarded Doggett, and then shook his head. "No, nothing else, Agent Doggett. Good work. This is the kind of work I expect to come out of the department, now that less...discriminating minds are no longer influencing investigations." Doggett smiled, and rose to his feet. "If that's all..." "Yes, I'm sure you want to get some rest. Take the day off, John." Doggett let his smile linger for a moment, and then walked out of the door without another word. Skinner was waiting in the hall outside, and walked him towards the elevator. "Things went well, I assume?" Skinner said in a concerned, low murmur. "Well enough," Doggett agreed. He looked over his shoulder, making sure Kersh was not somehow standing behind them. "Like I said when we talked it over this morning, there were some other things I might have mentioned, but as I told Agent Reyes, it was a better move to just stick to the facts, such as they were." They stepped into the elevator, and once it was obvious they were alone, Skinner turned towards Doggett with a frown. "You never said what you thought about what happened. You admitted that there were other things you could have said in that report. Should I take that as meaning that there were some things you couldn't explain, but you couldn't deny?" Doggett shook his head. "To be honest, Walter, I'm still thinking a lot of it over. There's a part of me that wants to take what's in that report and believe it without question. But I think I'd always have my doubts." "So, what then?" Skinner asked, his voice low as the elevator doors opened. He stepped out, looking back at Doggett. "Where do you go from here?" "Take it one day at a time, I suppose," Doggett answered with a shrug. "Just like I have every day since." Skinner nodded, not having to ask what Doggett was referring to. "See you tomorrow?" "Yeah," Doggett replied, letting his exhaustion finally show in the roughness of his voice. "See you tomorrow." The elevator doors closed, continuing its journey down to the parking garage. Alone with his thoughts, Doggett reached into his pocket and pulled out the paper Craig had given to him, reading the broken lines of the poem again: How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use! As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled on life Were all too little, and of one to me Little remains; but every hour is saved From that eternal silence, something more, A bringer of new things; and vile it were For some three suns to store and hoard myself, And this gray spirit yearning in desire To follow knowledge like a sinking star, Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. Death closes all; but something ere the end, Some work of noble note, may yet be done, Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks; The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs; the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends. 'T is not too late to seek a newer world. Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die. It may be that the gulfs will wash us down; It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho' We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are,-- One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. "One day at a time," he whispered to himself, sliding the paper into his pocket once more. The elevator doors opened, and he stepped out into the light, suddenly eager to find what the hour would bring.
The End
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