Title: Ordinary Mansions Big thanks to my beta Frohike51 Author's Note: The muse has been very strange lately. This came and was going to be what it was going to be no matter what. She dreams of him walking in cornfields; fields so wide you can't see the end, stalks so tall she loses sight of him soon after he goes inside. It doesn't matter though, she knows what he's doing. He's testing the crop; picking here and there to check for the numerous pests and diseases that will ruin it. The ruiners have exotic names such as Pythium, Fusarium, and wireworm. Exotic and deadly. They have quite a lot riding on this crop. In her dreams she can hear the locusts singing in the summer heat and smell the live things that live on their farm. There are two outdoor cats and one indoor dog. hey also have a milk cow, a horse or two, and a few chickens. A baby will join this lot in six months if all goes well. If the crop doesn't fail. And the crop *mustn't* fail. When he comes back, he is smiling, so she knows all is well. Only two more months before harvest if the weather stays dry. He'll run the combines at night when it's cooler and be done within a week. As he mounts the steps, her heart begins to race. Even after all this time together he can do that to her; make her excited to see him. His smile broadens when he sees her standing on the rickety porch that rings their hundred year old farm house. He knows she's been waiting to hear what he's going to say. "Did you worry?" he asks playfully. "Why do you always worry so much?" He doesn't wait for an answer and swoops in to kiss her gently, sweetly, for a very long time. At the end of it he pulls back and looks her closely in the eye, his forehead resting tenderly on hers. "You always did worry too much, Scully." With that she wakes suddenly, gulping in air and feeling queasy. She can still feel his lips on hers, smell him on her hair, and hear his voice in her ear. "Mulder," she murmurs before the tears come, "Mulder." She's late. In all the time she's been working with him, she's never been late. Once she didn't come at all. She'd called Skinner; not him, Skinner, to say she wouldn't be in. At first it'd rankled him that she'd called someone else, especially someone no longer connected to the X- files. Trust would be an essential component if they were to forge any kind of close affiliation. Establishing heir partnership would be difficult enough, and she hadn't helped matters by keeping him out of the loop. She'd kept him out before, of course, and the price of hat deception had nearly been her life. He'd been furious about it and let her know. He'd also been fearful, but hadn't told her that. She'd promised him in he hospital she wouldn't do it again. He'd believed her and thought that had ended it, but this tardiness seemed like one more omission. So he's surprised when she comes in the door. "Sorry I'm late," she says barely glancing at him and crossing to sit at her desk. He doesn't like her look this morning: dark circles under her eyes and weariness in her gait. Normally she carries herself with upright dignity. Today she seems...troubled. "Everything okay?" She pauses a moment and he thinks she might actually ell him something, but a coolness passes over her and between them, effectively shutting whatever door had momentarily been open. "Yes, Agent Doggett. I'm fine." He can hear the door slamming. They spend the rest of the day discussing a few cases hat needed some clerical tidying. She seems to greatly improve as the day progresses and he begins to relax. She has some high walls he needs to scale to gain her rust, but not today. He decides to leave her alone oday. Yet, when they part at the garage, he calls her back. "Agent Scully?" She turns, but doesn't move toward him; her hand still on the key in the door lock. With a sigh he moves to her instead; Mohammed and the mountain. "Look...if you ever need to discuss anything, anything at all, you call me okay?" He tries to sound sincere and not as if he's pushing her. She looks away from him for a moment over the roof of her car. He can only guess at what she's thinking. It akes a long time for her to answer. "Thank you, Agent Doggett. I'll keep that in mind." Then she's in her car and backing out before he has a chance to process what she's said. She didn't deny that she needed to talk, and didn't say no to him. That might actually be progress, he thinks, as he walks back to his car. This time she can feel warm, soapy water on her hands when the dream begins. She's in the kitchen washing dishes, quietly humming a wordless tune. Sheets are drying on a clothesline just outside the window over the sink. It's terribly hot in the room despite the fan she has blowing. Her hair is pinned up in loose curls and she can feel sweat trickle down along the hairline. Her loose cotton t-shirt and pants do nothing to facilitate the cooling-off process. She was also careful to put slippers on her feet; the potential for being teased about her pregnancy while in he kitchen would be too great a temptation for her playful husband. Not that she'd really mind, but nine months is a long time to endure a repeated joke. She startles suddenly when two strong arms wrap around her middle. He's come up behind her and she can feel his body pressed along the back of hers. "I didn't hear you come in," she says without turning her head. In a deliberately deep and eerie voice he says, "I'm sneaky like a secret agent." She laughs, and then stops when he bends his head to kiss her neck. He takes his time about it; dropping soft wet caresses along the nape. "It's too hot for this," she protests. "You didn't say that three months ago." She smiles. "Because it wasn't hot three months ago." "That's not what *I* remember." She laughs, but doesn't move away when he continues his ministrations. His hands rub softly over her belly, and she thinks he will do that fairly frequently as she enlarges. That he still finds her attractive is a welcome sensation. Without warning he spins her in his arms and hugs her o him. "What were you singing just now?" "What?" Her train of thought has veered seriously off rack. "Just now when I came in. You were singing something. What was it?" She has to make a concerted effort to think when he bends to kiss her open mouth. How can he expect her to process any thought under such an assault? "Nothing," she says when he breaks the kiss. "Just something my mother used to hum when she did the dishes." "I never noticed you doing that before. Do it again." "You want me to hum?" He pulls her closer and molds her into a slow-dancing pose. "Yeah, hum it again." She sighs when she answers him. "All right. Just remember you asked for it." When she begins the tune again, he moves them back and forth; rocking them gently in time with her music. here's no organization to the dance, only a slow shuffle of feet and the swaying of one sweaty body against the other. As they progress across the dingy iled floor, the world narrows down to just the two of them and this quiet moment. She thinks she will reflect on this moment often in the future, and that she will hold it dear in her heart as one of their best. To her vast surprise, he begins to hum with her; a little off-key, but she doesn't mind at all. In fact, she seems o have forgotten to mind the heat, the dirty floor, and her sink full of dishes. As he kisses the side of her face, he vibration of his lips tickles the tiny hairs on her cheek. It makes her smile. All noise stops when he kisses her mouth; a long tender caress that goes on and on. Suddenly a wet sensation presses against the back of her knee. With a yelp, she breaks from him and staggers backward. Kelly, their Irish setter, has decided to make an appearance. He proceeds to whine pitifully and wag his tail furiously at being noticed. They laugh at this comical intrusion. "I think he's jealous," her husband says still laughing. "Hmm. More like he's hungry," she says with her usual practicality. He tries to move in again and says an inane thing to make her laugh more. "Well, you know I am too..." She pushes him away with a laugh and turns back to the sink. "Go feed your dog and let me finish these." "All the romance has gone out of our marriage," he says with a mock pout. "Just wait 'til the baby comes." "That's a long way off from now." "It's sooner than you think." He concedes defeat to the dog and to her. Behind her she can hear him taking Kelly into the pantry to find some dog food. She smiles because she knows they will wrestle and play around a while before the dog gets fed. She suspects the dog knows it too. "I just cleaned up in there, so no horsing around you wo." Her answer is a crash of canned goods hitting the pantry floor. "Mulder!" Scully wakes this time with a broad smile on her face, calling his name. He can't seem to stop staring at her. She's different. wo weeks without a setback, and then this morning she's quiet again. Not that she'd ever been chatty, but she *had* been opening up just a fraction. Of course her idea of opening up was holding a conversation with him that contained more than two sentences, but even the silences had seemed less strained. They were due to leave for a case about some strange sightings in Kentucky. He'd wanted to discuss it with her before leaving for the airport, but she hadn't read he file last night as promised. "Whatta you mean you didn't read it?" He can't seem to keep the irritation out of his voice. "I wasn't feeling well Agent Doggett. I'm sorry. I'll be sure to have it read by the time we land in Louisville." Doggett frowns. The incident with Skinner was still fresh in his mind, and he feels he's being duped again. "Are you sick? I mean, do you need to see a doctor?" She visibly stiffens at the remark, making him regret it, but he has to know. He doesn't want her getting on a plane if she's truly ill. And she looks ill. The circles under her eyes are back and darker than before. There's an air of fragility about her that bothers him. "No, Agent Doggett, I do not need to see a doctor. I wasn't feeling well last night." He can feel the argument coming on like smelling rain in the air before a storm. He feels helpless to stop it, just like the countless arguments he had with his ex- wife. "You look like hell." "Excuse me?" "You heard what I said. You don't look fit for duty and hat's a hazard to both of us." his makes her pause. "Do I need to demonstrate that I'm fit for duty?" He has visions of her suddenly reaching for her gun and shooting him down just to prove the point. "You may have to." "How do you suggest I do that Agent Doggett?" "You can start by tellin' me the truth." "I am telling the truth." "No you're not. Things were just fine until last night. Yesterday you went home lookin' normal and now you come back lookin' like you've been awake for a week. Now somethin's happened and you're not tellin' me what it is." He watches her deflate somewhat. He can tell she wants o tell him, unburden herself, but it's not in her nature o do that if it's personal, and he has a feeling it's personal. "I..." she starts. A muscle in her cheek twitches as the only outward sign of the emotional turmoil she must be experiencing. "I've been having...dreams." "Dreams?" he asks stupidly. He was expecting to hear confessions about sleepless nights filled with grief, not dreams. She ducks her head. "Yes." Very gently he asks, "About Mulder?" Her head snaps up at his bluntness. She should be used hat by now, he thinks. "Yes." "You want to talk about it?" She seems to struggle again, but in the end he knows she won't tell him. He's still a stranger to her; treading on her territory. "No, not...no." He walks across the space separating them to sit on the edge of her desk. "I'll make a deal with you. I won't make a stink about hese dreams if you agree to see a doctor about them when we get back." "Wait," he says when she starts to protest, "I'm not going to negotiate with you on this. You agree to see a doctor or I go up and tell Kersh I don't think you're fit o go to Kentucky." She visibly shrinks; all the fight gone out of her. She knows he'll do it. In the back of his mind he knows he's being a little unfair. He's trading on her nearly obsessive desire to keep the X-Files open, but she clearly needs help. "All right." "All right?" He wants her to say it. "I agree to see a doctor when we get back." Something about the way she says it, makes Doggett hink she's not being totally honest. But she's kept her word with him since Utah, and he accepts the statement at face value. "Good." On the plane she dutifully reads the entire file before hey land. Icy silence has settled between them; he's obviously lost ground with her. Something tells him he needs to get used to that. **~ She doesn't expect another dream to come again so soon, but it does. She and Doggett had only been in Kentucky for two days when the next one intrudes itself upon her. his one begins with her feeding the chickens. They'd become pets and, to her husband's dismay, she has named them all. The first time he'd wanted to slaughter one, she'd protested loudly. "You can't kill Gracie!" "Gracie? You've named the chicken Gracie?" She'd bitten her lip, knowing that it was stupid and wasteful, especially since things were so tight, but she hadn't been able to let him kill that chicken. In the end he'd given up, muttering something about them all 'starving to death this winter'. She'd placated him by saying they could still use the eggs, even though Gracie's egg-laying days were long over. As she scatters feed along the ground, watching them eat it hungrily, she suddenly realizes she's late with her husband's lunch. He'd gone out that morning to fix a section of barbed wire fencing a neighbor's cow had rampled. She'd promised to bring him lunch and a kiss. The pickup she drives lumbers along a muddy service road toward the far end of their farm. The corn still looks good; very healthy to her. Only one more month until harvest. It's become an obsessive verse she repeats over and over: only one more month, only one more month... She finds him hunched around a post wearing thick work gloves and wielding a wire cutter. He's removed his shirt to work in the blazing sun and she takes a moment to admire his muscular back. A tan has darkened his skin and he's coated with a sheen of sweat. He straightens at the sound of her approach and waves he cutters at her in greeting. When she stops, he leans on the open window. "You're late," he says. "Sorry, I was wool-gathering." "Wool-gathering? While you husband is slaving away at this stupid fence?" "Yes, " she says and pushes him out of the way by opening the truck door. He backs off a few steps to accept the bagged lunch she's prepared. "What did ya bring me?" he asks while tearing the bag open. "Turkey sandwiches." "Turkey?" She detects a note of sarcasm in his voice. Was he ever going to stop teasing her about those damn chickens? She gives him 'the look', but he only smiles at her more. His face disappears inside the bag as he rifles through it. "There's something missing." "Missing?" She tries to think what could be missing: wo sandwiches, Fritos, a hand full of fig Newton's and an apple. "What's missing?" "This." He leans in and kisses her. He likes to do that; take her practical mind and turn it upside down. Normally it would annoy her, but this is a very pleasant annoyance. "You promised to bring me lunch and a kiss." "Never let it be said I don't deliver." She leans into him again to repeat her performance when she feels a sharp sting on her face. She jumps back in pain and brings a hand to her left cheek. It comes away with blood. His cutter has nicked her. "Are you okay?" he sputters. "Scully are you okay?" His face evaporates as does the entire farm scene. It's hen that she hears a pounding at her door. "Agent Scully, Agent Scully. Are you okay?" Doggett's worried voice penetrates the wooden door. Slowly she wakes to the reality of her motel room. The bedding has been pushed off, and she's lying partially off the mattress. The pounding at her door doesn't stop. "Agent Scully!" Somehow she manages to turn over and stumbles to the door. It takes her a moment to get the chain undone and he door to open. Doggett's stricken face is what she finds on the other side. "Agent Doggett, what are you doing here?" Her voice sounds thick to her ears; almost slurred. Instead of answering, his hand reaches up to her face. "You're bleeding." She flinches and steps back to try to keep him from ouching her. His hand grazes along her cheek before she's able to put distance between them. A splotch of red mares his fingers. "I...I cut it getting out of bed." The lie sounds tinny to her ears. "What did you want?" He seems reluctant to accept her explanation, but moves on anyway. "I just got a call from Kersh. We're being sent to Shirley, Illinois." "Tonight?" "Tonight." "Why?" "There's been a series of murders on farms there and we're being sent to help out." The helicopter's blades beat with a steady rhythm as they cross the blue Illinois sky. Doggett frowns as he watches field after field of perfect corn sweep by his window. For reasons he doesn't quite understand, this case bothers him. His gut ells him that true evil lurks among the pristine farms and graceful town of Shirley. It seems the cases he hates the most start with helicopter rides. His partner sits stiffly beside him, viewing those same fields with dark eyes. She's looking worse han ever, and he doesn't know what to say to her. he red scratch he first observed last night, now stands out as a purpled bruise against the pale skin of her face. It isn't deep or particularly dangerous looking, but it disturbs him all the same. He thinks it's a symbol of sorts; a physical manifestation of he emotional storm he senses inside her. He turns his attention from her back to the fields. So far, information on the murders had been kept away from the press, but there was a twist to this series of killings that would eventually attract heir attention. The reason he and Scully have been summoned to the case soon comes into view. The helicopter makes a wide, sweeping turn so hey can get a good look at it. An elegantly shaped crop circle appears in the middle of the corn. It's one large circle, surrounded by a series of smaller circles, set apart in a geometric design. Normally he would admire its simple beauty, if not for the circumstances surrounding its creation. One has appeared after every death. "You have pictures of this?" Doggett asks Agent Crane, one of the local FBI agents assigned to the case "Got 'em yesterday when the bodies were discovered," he shouts above the din. "Can we take a closer look?" Crane leans across and speaks to the pilot who nods briefly before turning them back around. "Crop circles. This used to be Mulder's thing didn't?" Doggett asks Scully. She turns with a disdainful look. "*Is* his thing, Agent Doggett." He realizes too late that he's used the past tense and mentally kicks himself. "Yes, Agent Scully. Is his thing." In spite of his blunder, a small smile passes her lips. "Mulder knows more about crop circles than your average agent, yes." "He share any of that information with you?" She gives him a frown. "Yes, Agent Doggett. We discussed crop circles. Why?" "Dunno. You don't seem the crop circle type." o his surprise, she actually smiles before turning away. "Neither do you," she tells the window dryly. Before he can reply, they're landing in a clearing next to what seems to be the only paved road in he vicinity. The tall prairie grasses whip frantically under the wind force. He steps out and automatically turns to help Scully descend. She glances at him briefly before accepting his offered hand. He keeps forgetting that she's a strong, independent woman capable of maneuvering on her own. He was brought up to be polite, and old habits are hard to break. Agent Crane joins them and they bend as the grasses do before racing away from under the deadly blades. Once they're out, Crane leads them hrough a maze of trees and wild grasses that border the farm the circle is on. Near the edge hey scare a pair of mourning doves out of their hiding place. A rusty barbed wire fence runs as far as the eye can see in both directions. "We could go around to the gate, but that's a walk I've already made once," Crane explains when he sees their exasperated expressions. "It's pretty far and I'd just assume not repeat that experience." "Whoever made this went to a lot of trouble to do it." Doggett mutters to himself. "It's shorter if we cut across here." Crane reaches forward and pulls the top strand of wire down so they can traverse it. Doggett goes first and has some minor difficulty stepping over he tall fencing. Scully, he thinks, will definitely need help. When he turns, he finds her contemplating the fence with a worried expression, absently rubbing her scratch. "Come on, Agent Scully. I'll help." She looks at his proffered hand with a frown. "This isn't about politeness," he says, thinking she doesn't want his help. "I know. Thank you." She accepts his hand and manages to cross without much difficulty. Crane decides to duck underneath and his suit coat tears as it catches on one of the barbs. Swearing softly, he disengages himself with Doggett's help. Crane takes the lead again as they descend into he field. The sun diminishes somewhat under the shadow of the corn, but the heat. The leaves are so dense they have to push their way through. Grasshoppers, bees and other assorted wildlife scatter in their wake. After what seems an eternity inside the living sauna, they emerge onto the edge of the biggest circle. Cornstalks lay at their feet, bent over like supplicants at an altar. Doggett tracks them around the circle, searching for anything that seems amiss. They line up perfectly, one after the other, without a broken stalk between them. "You find anything in here?" he asks Crane. "Nothing but stepped-on corn. No footprints leading in or out, no tire tracks or tramlines anywhere near it." "Anyone bring a compass in here?" Both men turn to look at Scully with expectant expressions. "Compasses are said to spin uncontrollably inside a crop circle. Cameras, watches and cell phones can malfunction," she says as an explanation. Doggett gives her a surprised look. "You paid attention." Crane looks at both of them with a tired expression. "Seen enough yet?" They nod wearily. "Let's head back." It's late afternoon before the helicopter lands back at the small airfield. Crane tells them Scully won't be allowed to examine the bodies until tomorrow because the local coroner is being territorial. Their bureau car sits on the tarmac, the metal shining dully under harsh sunlight. They both sigh heavily when they finally get in and he starts it up. he engine makes a squeal of protest when Scully urns the air conditioner on. "Look," he says sensing her fatigue, "I don't know about you but I'm beat. Why don't we go check into the motel and get some rest? We can discuss he case at dinner." Between the heat, truncated night of sleep, and bumpy commuter plane ride out here, he's tired and knows she has to be. Scully was good at nearly everything except hiding her exhaustion. He wanted them both to be fresh when they went over the details. "That would be fine." Their motel is like the countless others strewn all over small town America; generic, plain, but serviceable. There's a field behind it and the corn appears to grow right up to the squat buildings. Doggett parks the car, but stops her when she makes a move to get out. "I'll go register. You stay here and rest." She looks a little irritated, but doesn't argue with him. When he returns to the car, she isn't there. He quickly peers inside in case she's lying down, but the seats are empty. Looking around he, sees nothing but the gravel parking lot and pink neon motel sign. The faded vacancy light seems permanently lit. "Agent Scully?" He receives no answer and a tightening occurs in his gut. On instinct he runs around the back of the building and sees her standing in a large clearing. he remains of an old playground lie scattered inside it. She's staring out across the cornfield with a brown object in her hand. As he nears he realizes it's an ancient, beat-up baseball that she holds close to her face. "Eau de ball," she murmurs to herself. "What's that?" Scully startles as if he's caught her doing something bad. "Nothing. Just something Mulder said once." "Oh de bald?" The corner of her mouth upturns at this and she gently corrects him. "Eau de ball. We were investigating a case in rural Pennsylvania and he picked up a kid's baseball in a field. Held it up and made me sniff it." She looks down at the ball in her hand smiling ruefully before tossing it on the ground. Doggett doesn't say anything, hoping this sudden spate of disclosure will continue. "He said it reminded him of his childhood. And," she pauses, "he also said I didn't know him as well as I thought I did; that our work demanded that he live in a big city, but if he had a choice, he'd settle down in a place like...this actually." "When did this happen?" he asks, rifling through his memory to find the case she's speaking of. "A long time ago." He tries to understand what prompted this moment of reflection, and realizes any explanation will have to come from her. He finds he'll have to wait. "We have rooms yet?" "Room 112," he says handing her the key. "I'm 111, right next door. I'll come and get you at seven." "All right." She turns around and heads for the motel, leaving Doggett more mystified than ever. She's afraid to take the nap she so desperately needs. Sleep has become an odd thing, both feared and desired. She'd never thought about rest much, but the dreams have changed that. She looks forward to the closeness, the intimacy she feels while experiencing them, but they leave her so physically drained it's days before she feels normal again. It can't be good for the baby. With a sigh, she lays down on the stiff motel bed, giving in to the inevitability of failure. Within seconds she's asleep and dreaming. When it begins, she thinks it's just an ordinary dream. It's warm, dark and quiet where she is. A noise suddenly intrudes into the silence. A steady rhythmic squeaking sound invades her sleepy mind and she senses movement. When she opens her eyes she's sitting up, leaning against a warm body. The roughen edge of bib overalls is scratching her wounded cheek. She struggles to sit up and the strong arms encircling her loosen just a little. The sweet hazel eyes of her husband meet hers and she smiles. "Hey, sleepyhead," he teases," I thought you were going to snooze the sunset away." "What?" She's still a little disoriented. "Look," he whispers in her ear. "Just look." She realizes they're sitting in a porch swing facing he west. The squeaking she heard earlier is coming from the rusty links of chain holding them up as they rock to and fro. Beyond the porch she can see the sun is setting just over the horizon, leaving colors strewn across the sky. Delicate hues of pink, gold, orange and blue are painting he usually monotonous vista. She feels humbled o have a sight so spectacular gracing their ordinary existence. "Beautiful," she breathes. "Yes." When she turns her head she realizes he's looking at her and she blushes. "Not me, the sunset." Without breaking eye contact he says, "Like I said, beautiful." He leans down and gently kisses her. This is their special time together, agreed upon when they first married. No matter what they're doing, they stop and meet on the porch to watch the sun set. In all heir time together they've only missed it once. She raises her hand to run it through his hair. "You need a haircut," she says when he breaks from her. "My barber has been too busy to cut it." "Yes she has." They both laugh at the silly joke, but a wave of weariness washes over her. "I'm so tired," she murmurs. The smile fades from his face. A roughened humb settles into the hollows under her eyes with his fingers curling protectively under her jaw. "I know. It's the baby isn't it?" "Hmm." She finds her eyelids fluttering closed. He leans her back into his side and she lays her head on his shoulder again. "Rest," he says after kissing the top of her head. "Rest and you can cut my hair tomorrow." "I love you, Mulder," she murmurs. "I love you too, Scully." She doesn't waken with the end of the dream, but continues to sleep as blackness descends around her. She wakens feeling peaceful and refreshed before Doggett has even knocked at her door. He doesn't know where she is. He comes home to discover the lights off and Kelly in a corner crying to be fed. When he calls her name, he receives no reply. It's unlike her to go somewhere in the middle of the day without telling him first. Besides the truck is still out front. There's no other place for her to go... Climbing the stairs two at a time, he knows where he'll find her; sitting in her mother's antique rocking chair. It was a gift given to her by her mother when she married; something that had been in the family for generations. he oft told tale of its transportation over the rolling prairie in a wagon pulled by mules was well known to him. She sat in it after the first time they made love in their home as husband and wife, and again when she found out she was pregnant. He knows now that he will find her here when she's feeling emotional, working through feelings, or just needs to 'think'. It's located in a tiny spare room on the third floor, behind a closed door. She put it there, she says, because it's too ornate and precious for their bedroom. The dog might chew it, or one of them could blunder into it when not being careful. He knows she really put it there as a retreat; a place she can go to contemplate her life. When she comes in this room he knows to leave her alone o her contemplating. He only disturbs this reverie when it's time for her to do something. He let her think through dinner time once, and she was livid. He's been trying to talk her into moving it downstairs for when the baby comes home. She certainly can't bring him/her up here each time it needs to be fed or rocked. So far she has resisted his suggestion, and he's afraid he'll have to move it while she's in the hospital. He knocks on the door and eventually hears her soft reply o come in. She's rocking to and fro in a slow and houghtful manner; the same way he has found her before. This time, however, there is a feeling in the room he can't identify. "Hey, you okay?" he inquires softly. When he receives no reply, he kneels in front of her. Making eye contact may break this odd mood. When he places his hands over hers, she pauses her motion briefly. here are tears in her eyes. "What is it? What's wrong?" he asks, immediately hinking of the baby. "Phyllis Schmitt's husband was found dead today." Her voice is flat, void of emotion. "He was out in the cornfield behind her house." "Yes, I just heard." News travels faster than lightening in heir small community. "I'm so scared." "There's nothing to be afraid of. I'm not going to die." "You don't know that." He pulls her hands into his, cradling them together, and places them over his heart. Her fingers are like ice. "I promise you, I'm not going to die." Her expression falters for a moment, wanting to believe him. When she finally focuses on his face, she smiles and hugs him to her. She trembles for a moment before relaxing against him. Their awkward position has put his face in her chest. The vee of her dress is low so that his cheek rests on bare skin. She smells of sweat, powder and soft perfume. Unable to resist the temptation her skin presents, he places tender kisses across her chest. She runs her hands through his hair, urging his progress. "I still need to cut this...." she murmurs. He interrupts her by nuzzling into the soft cleavage before him. With lips and tongue, he hopes to drive her dark thoughts away. She answers with sweet gasps in his ear. He coaxes her to rise and join him so they can go downstairs. She does so silently, and without resistance. He places his arm around her cold shoulders, and kisses her again to let her know he is there; a solid presence and not the future ghost she seems to fear. She kisses back with urgency and hunger, the ghosts apparently now banished. He makes love to her with all the tender emotion his poor heart contains. She is his everything, the reason he lives and breathes. If he has anything to do about it, she will never know pain or fear again. When he climaxes he calls her name over and over. "Scully...." She wakes abruptly, badly startled by this dream. It's as vivid and intense as the previous ones, but its point of view is so different. She was there as a participant, but also as observer; inside, yet standing outside herself too. She could see and hear everything happening, could feel Mulder's body against hers, hear his thoughts, feel his emotions. She wonders if this signals a change in the character of he dreams, or and end to them. Strange as they are, they help keep Mulder fresh in her mind. And she desperately wants to keep him fresh in her mind. She's begun to think that the dreams are taking place here in Shirley. How it was possible to dream of this place in advance of actually arriving here, she can only guess. She'd thought the dreams were Mulder's mind reaching out to hers across time and space, a notion abhorrent to her normally orderly mind. Much of the information contained in the dreams is wrong, though, if she is indeed dreaming of this place. here's no Schmitt among the victims here, and from the scanty information gathered so far, there's no couple with a pregnant wife. She also doesn't recognize 'her' farm in he pictures she's seen so far. Still, there is an eerie feeling of familiarity in every place she's been. She knows she won't sleep again for a long time, if at all. With a sigh she rolls out of the bed and moves to sit at the small table where she and Doggett ate their meager supper. The files they were studying are still open, spread across the table in a semi-organized fashion. Picking up the first file, she re-reads the contents, hoping o find a common thread among the victims, besides crop circles. The first victim in most serial killings holds he key to the jagged puzzle of a killer's mind. The first aking of life, a birth for him. Robert Johnson's sun-weathered face stares out at her from a faded family photograph. His smile is broad, full of pride as he stands in his Sunday best with his family: wo boys aged eight and nine, and his wife. The background is a mass of tall corn with a white-sided house further back. This simple God-fearing man was the first. His body was found at the back of the house in the early morning by his wife, Martha. He'd been strangled with rope from a nearby clothesline and propped up against his ractor. The crop circle was discovered later by the local sheriff during his investigation into the murder. According to Mrs. Johnson, the previous night had been a routine one. The two young children had gone to bed at nine p.m. while she and Mr. Johnson stayed up to watch V. They'd both gone to bed at approximately eleven p.m. as usual, not aware of any danger lurking outside in he warm summer air. Mrs. Johnson hadn't been woken up that night by any strange noises or by her husband as he got out of bed. She only went looking for him when she realized he wasn't at he breakfast table having his morning coffee. The children had not heard anything unusual either. The youngest child, Robert Jr., reported being briefly woken up by 'lights in the sky', but couldn't remember anything else about them. The Johnson's had been, by all appearances, a happy loving couple. No affairs, no public fighting, no old jealous boyfriends or girlfriends to exact revenge. Mrs. Johnson had been ruled out as a suspect very early on. They were also considered model parents. Mr. Johnson ook his boys fishing, to the 4-H club, and had them do chores around the farm. Mrs. Johnson was a member of he PTA, local sewing circle, and taught Sunday school. The boys themselves were reported to be well-behaved by teachers, parents, and school mates alike. Sighing softly, Scully thinks: the perfect family. The FBI profiler report said the killer was jealous of this perfect family. He saw them as an affront to him personally. The fact that the husband was propped up against the tractor was a public show. The tractor represented farm life and his body was positioned to be found by the wife, or one of the children, depending on who came out of the house first. "He wanted to destroy that whole family," Doggett had murmured. "But why? Jealousy doesn't seem enough," she'd replied. "I don't know. Doesn't make sense, but it probably would only make sense to him." "Why doesn't the report mention the crop circles or the lights the Johnson boy saw?" "Dunno. I think that's why we were sent for. Maybe this guy has an alien fetish or something." "It doesn't fit into this profile, at least that's what I understand from the conclusion. Mulder..." She stopped, suddenly embarrassed. She'd been about to say Mulder would have known how it fit in. "Go on," Doggett had urged, "Mulder what? You gotta be able to talk about him without thinking that you're hurtin' my feelings." After a pause she said, "I was going to say Mulder would have known how they fit in." Doggett had frown, still looking the report over. "Maybe. Wish he was here to tell us." He'd glanced at her briefly before returning his attention o the file. Looking back on it now, she thinks he was checking her reaction, not to the news that he wanted Mulder there too, but to that fact that *he'd* said it. She hinks he meant it too. She sets the file aside, not really finding any new information, and picks up the coroner's report. It was a standard form she'd seen used countless times in small communities. Unusual deaths were scarce, and the forms tended to be brief and outdated. DNA testing, the standard across the country wasn't used in small communities, so there was no space for it in the report. Samples had to be sent to large cities that used it frequently. In these cases, the samples were sent to Springfield, instead of Chicago, for analysis. So far nothing significant had turned up. The cause of death for Robert Johnson was listed as strangulation. The ligature marks made by the clothesline were photographed, as were the marks made by the victim as he tried to break free. Whoever had done this to him had been strong to stave off the burly farmer. Petechial hemorrhages noted in the sclera of the eye gave further corroboration to the strangulation theory. The increased intracranial pressure caused the blood in the eyes to literally ooze out into the white part. Retinal hemorrhages were also noted. No other signs of violence were found on the body; no sexual abuse or post mortem mutilations were found. A straightforward diagnosis. She'd like to take a look at the body, but Johnson's death had taken place nearly three weeks ago. After the coroner was finished he'd been buried in the local cemetery in the family plot. There's no reason at this point to exhume him. A small part of her wonders if ectoplasm was found on him and dismissed as body fluid. When she glances at the clock, she sees it's four a.m. She and Doggett agreed to meet at seven. Three hours. Without thinking on it further, she showers and dresses. he car keys are sitting on her dresser, forgotten last night by Doggett when he left. What she's about to do will strain the hard won trust he has in her, but she feels a compulsion to go. With any luck, she'll be back long before he notices she's gone. Early morning sun glints off the windshield as she drives passed farm after farm, making her feel more ridiculous as the miles tick by. The initial goal of finding her 'dream' farm had seemed realistic, but was now proving o be pure folly. The asphalt roads are all laid out in giant squares and easy enough to follow, but they are also unbelievably long. Sometimes it is two or three miles before another road cuts across, and more times han not, that road leads nowhere. She finds herself driving down paths that could suddenly end, or become muddy disasters. o make matters worse, she is dangerously close to running out of gas. She's literally in the middle of nowhere, and even if she could find a gas station, she doubts it would be open so early in the morning. She doesn't think approaching a farm to ask directions would be a good idea either. The local farmers are so spooked by the killings; she's as likely to be met with a shotgun at he door as a friendly face. Finally she pulls over and takes out her cell phone. If she calls Doggett there will be hell to pay. He might even send her packing, and she can't leave. She can't. She won't. If she calls AAA it could be hours before help arrives, and she wouldn't know where to direct them in any case. Either way she's busted. With a bow to the inevitable, she calls the motel and asks to be put through to Doggett's room. Several rings occur before the call is picked up. "Hello?" he says, angry and out of breath. "Agent Doggett?" She's met with total silence and wonders if he heard her. Finally he answers. "Where are you?" he asks, his voice hard, sharp, and controlled. "I-uh- don't know really." "Whatta you mean?" "I went for a drive and got lost." The excuse sounds even weaker than she first thought it would. "I noticed." He pauses, waiting for her to fill the weighty silence between them. He's not going to cut her any slack. "I can explain when I get back," she tries. Then with a laugh, "If I get back." "I'll call the sheriff and you can describe where you are. We'll come and get you.*Don't* go anywhere else, okay? Just stay put." Before she can respond, the phone goes dead. "Yes, sir" she mutters into the dead receiver. Some time later her phone rings and the sheriff she met briefly yesterday is on the other end. By now, she's gotten out of the car and walked toward a rise in the road. The only thing she can see is a red barn in the distance in one direction and a row of giant power-line owers in the other. She's close enough to hear the buzzing crackle of electricity as it streams along the rope-like cables. They are also adding interference on her call. After a session of question-answer he asks a critical question. "Is the sun shining on the left of the towers where you are, or on the right?" "The left." "Well, I have a pretty good idea where you are. We'll be along directly." He hangs up, and she puts the phone away, dreading the impending confrontation. In spite of promising to stay put, she finds herself walking up the road toward the power lines. She feels strangely drawn to them, as if the rhythmic hum of their electricity is drawing her in. Something about them is oddly familiar, like she's seen them before. 'De ja vu, ' she thinks. Suddenly her body convulses as a scene flashes before her disbelieving eyes. She's standing on the edge of her farm's property line, looking at them from a different angle. The towers are only partially erected, sun glinting sharply off their bases. A strong arm is around her shoulders holding her tightly against a warm body. Looking up, she can see it's Mulder and he's in the middle of a speech. "...crazy. They aren't dangerous at all. They're going to bring us more electricity and the chance to electrify everything, including the barn." She looks at him in bewilderment. "Mulder?" He turns his head to give her a blindingly sweet smile. "Did you hear anything I said, Scully?" She finds herself falling out of both Mulder's arms and he daymare onto the graveled shoulder. Feeling as weak as a newborn, she can only lie there on her side, trying to comprehend what's just happened to her. Distantly, she hears a car drive up. Her vision is dark and blurred, as if the world is now underwater. She can just make out the front tire of the car as it stops near her face. Try as she might, she can't move; can't turn over to get out of the way. A car door opens and closes, sounding muffled to her. wo boots come out around the car and onto the shoulder. They crunch over the gravel as they draw closer to her prostrate form. The boots are dark brown, badly worn, and stained. They pause as their owner stands over her, regarding her. Somehow, she manages to turn her head up, but the sun is behind the man, obscuring his features. He bends low and he whispers to her. "I knew you'd come back." With those words, her battle with consciousness is lost as blackness descends to envelop them both. The next sounds she hears are voices talking in low whispers. Opening her eyes, she can see two long tubes of harsh fluorescent lighting on a peeling ceiling above her. As she slowly turns over, she can hear the rustle of paper moving under her. Scratched brown paneling covers the wall next to her. She's more successful in her attempt to sit up this time han she was on the road. Her head is throbbing painfully, causing her to sway slightly. She feels her upper arms grabbed to keep her from inadvertently toppling over. Immediately she struggles against the hold, fearing they belong to the man on the road. "Agent Scully!" Deep blue eyes belonging to her partner swim into focus. His forehead is crinkled in consternation instead of malice. He backs off when she stops her struggles. "Where am I?" "You're at the local clinic in Shirley. Dr. Ringhoffer is he only physician for a hundred miles and we had to wake her up for you." Behind Doggett stands a tall, silver-haired woman in a lab coat buttoned over pajama bottoms and tennis shoes. She smiles at the mention of her name and reaches forward to shake Scully's hand. "I'm pleased to meet you Dr. Scully. I heard you were in own, and wanted to meet you." "Under better circumstances I'm sure," Scully mutters. "I'm pleased to meet you." She realizes then that she's sitting on a standard clinic able, complete with a paper roll covering. A standard otoscope/ophthalmoscope device is hanging on the wall next to a blood pressure sphygmomanometer. A plastic vinyl chair sits next to a Formica side table in the corner. he clinic seems like something out of the 1970's; frozen in time. "We're modern except for the accommodations," Dr. Ringhoffer explains when she sees Scully looking around. "I don't seem to make enough to remodel." "No, Scully lies, "it's charming." She doesn't see a reason to be critical. Small town doctors were overworked and underpaid when compared to their more urban counterparts. She makes a move to get off the table and Doggett is over to her before she can. "Whoa there, I don't think you should be movin' so fast." "I'm fine Agent Doggett. I'd like to go- if it's okay with Dr. Ringhoffer." They both turn to regard the tired-looking physician. "I don't see why you can't leave if you're feeling better," she starts, "but this loss of consciousness worries me. At he very least I think you should have a CAT scan in Springfield..." "NO," Scully nearly shouts. Realizing her brusqueness is unwarranted, she softens her tone. "No, that won't be necessary. I feel fine. Agent Doggett and I have a job to do." A look passes between Doggett and Ringhoffer. Scully has the uncomfortable feeling they've discussed this; discussed her between them and her possible reaction to esting and hospitalization. She suddenly feels like an elderly grandmother whose children think she can't make decisions on her own. "All right then. I'm going to leave you in Agent Doggett's capable hands. He's promised to make you go o a hospital if he thinks it's necessary." Scully hears a conspiratorial tone in the doctor's voice. She's definitely been discussed. She manages to stand up with little difficulty, and walks out of the clinic without her rubbery legs giving out. Every step of the way she feels Doggett's critical stare, looking for a chink in the armor; a weakness to point out and use against her. When they reach the car, Doggett pauses before unlocking the door. "You give me one good reason why I shouldn't send you on the first flight back to D.C."' "Because you need me here. I think I may know who the killer is."
Doggett grips the steering wheel tightly between stiff hands. Driving back to the road where he'd found her is Scully's idea. He's only going along with it because she offers him a tantalizing idea: the identity of the crop circle killer. Never mind that no one else knows, and they've only been on the case a little over twenty-four hours. She says she has the answer, and he thinks she just might. He steals a glance at his silent partner. She is still such a mystery to him. He finds her fascinating, the way you might find a science project interesting. Except she isn't his project; she is someone else's. There are several other people in line for that job. If a scientific paper on the X-Files could be written, under he author's heading it would say: by Dr. Fox Mulder, Dr. Dana Scully, and A.D. Walter Skinner; et al. He is the et al. He never had any delusions on that account. He's clearly he interloper in a world that has written the rules of engagement long before he showed up. The most he can hope for is to solve as many cases as he's able and to do it with a modicum of dignity. The problem is that his dignity is routinely affronted and he's constantly reminded that many X-Files aren't solvable or even understandable. His partner, once a strict scientist, is now a 'believer'. He wants her to be a scientist again, but that woman is long dead. She's been replaced by this newer, more ethereal version. A secret and guilty part of him fervently wishes he'd known that other Dana Scully. His thoughts are interrupted as he nears the section of road she was found on. The rut her car made on the shoulder is still present as a reminder. He pulls over and parks the car, waiting for her to say or do something. This is her show. "This the spot?" he asks. "Yes." More silence. She's staring off toward the high-tension power lines. Early morning cicadas sing in the balmy heat hat rolls off the corn. Birds flit across the road in pursuit of their own quarry. The silence of country life surrounds hem. He listens to the engine ping as it cools and the metal shell of the car pops in answer. Just when he thinks hey're going to sit there all morning, she finally speaks, but won't look at him. "Agent Doggett, what I have to say may be hard for you o understand." He waits a beat and then asks wryly, "Harder than pullin' a slug outta your back?" A small smile crosses her face. "Well, maybe not *that* hard." "Go on." "You know the dreams I was having?" "Back in D.C.?" "Yes. They continued in Kentucky and here too. I hink..." she pauses. "...I think they're about this place. I recognize the area from them." Doggett pauses and looks around. "How can ya tell? It all looks the same to me. Besides, I thought you said these dreams were about Mulder." "They are about Mulder, but they're also about me. I dream about the two of us. We're living here in Shirley on a farm together." He remains silent, not knowing what he can say to such an idea. "I know it sounds strange, but they're so...real. The details are about things I could never make up. We're married, living on a farm with a dog, chickens, a crop about to come in and..." She stops suddenly. "And what?" "And nothing. Just that I *know* they're real." "What has this got to do with the murders?" "I'm not sure, but I think I'm dreaming the killer's memories. The dreams *feel* like memories; things that happened a long time ago to someone else, but I'm part of hem." "And Mulder is in them too?" "Yes, I think the killer is using my memories of Mulder o relive his old life. I sense such longing in them. hey're also almost too good to be true." Doggett mulls this over. His memories of Luke are nearly all good ones too. He tends to forget the fights, the punishments, and temper tantrums; instead he remembers baseball games, eating ice cream, and wrestling in the living room. His sweet little boy forever frozen at age nine. He knows what it's like to long for a lost life. "If what you're sayin' is true and these dreams really are memories, what makes you think they belong to the killer?" "I don't know, just a feeling." "A feelin'? That's all you got to go on, a feelin'?" "Yes. The dreams started three weeks ago with the first killing and they're becoming more frequent." "That's not enough, that's not nearly enough to go on," he says shaking his head. "It is if we find the farm. We find the farm, we'll find the killer. I'm sure of it." "You still haven't told me how the dreams tie into the murders. Do they tell you why he's killing people?" "No, I haven't gotten that far yet." "Haven't gotten that far?" Doggett is having a hard time keeping the incredulity out of his voice. "I'm experiencing them in a timeline of some kind. He's leading up to something, I know it." She seems agitated now, still staring intently at the power lines. Doggett sighs, knowing they don't have many other angible leads to go on and she seems desperate to pursue his avenue. "How do you suggest we start?" "We drive to the other side of those," she says, pointing o the towers. Scully knows that her partner thinks she's slightly crazy. Revealing her theories on the dreams to him was chancy, but he seems willing to go along with her-for now. She can only imagine what he'd think if she'd also told him what else she believes is true; that Mulder is alive and speaking to her through the dreams. She feels him close to her; so close it's as if he's beside her again. The dream where she fell asleep watching the sunset was sweet, restful, and, she believes, driven purely by Mulder. Somehow this killer has brought them together in a bizarre mental trinity. She wonders if Mulder is fully aware of what's going on; if he understands the dreams and the part he plays in hem. Somehow she think he does, but isn't able to tell her. She also wishes Mulder's profiling was available. The official one is good, but clearly falls short of its intentions. She thinks there's more than jealousy at work here, but isn't sure what else is. Doggett drives with Scully instructing, trying to get the owers to line up like the ones in her dream. They drive around hitting dead ends when she suddenly sees them from the proper angle. "Stop here." Doggett obeys with a frown. "I don't see a farm," he says softly. Without answering, she gets out to look around. Instead of a road leading into a farm, she's greeted with a high, rusting, fence and a tangle of woods. Peering through the rees, she attempts to see if a house is behind them, but he bushes and grass are too tall. She briefly contemplates scaling the fence, but decides against it when she realizes she'll need an axe to hack through the undergrowth. "What are you doing?" Scully jumps, not realizing Doggett has gotten out of the car to stand behind her. She remains silent, not knowing what to say. The farm isn't here. She'd been sure it would be; so convinced, in fact, she has no idea what to do now. "It's not here." "Well," he begins slowly, "maybe there was a farm, but it's long gone now." "I was so sure..." "You said the dreams were memories. Could be they're from further back than you thought." "Yes..," she says absently. "Look, the Johnson farm isn't far from here. We need to question Mrs. Johnson, and maybe we can find out if something was here before." Scully nods absently, still looking at the woods. She starts o turn toward Doggett when a daymare begins. It's brief, so brief she's only disoriented for a moment. She's standing in the same spot, but the main road is dirt- packed instead of paved. The road she expected to see leading to a house is there and Mulder is standing on the other side. The chain link fence is gone, and a split-rail fence stands in its place. The whole scene is bright, shiny, and impossibly beautiful. Then it's gone like vapor; disappearing before she has a chance to take it all in properly. She doesn't black out, but does stagger back into Doggett. His arms come up reflexively to catch her before she falls. "D-did you see that?" he asks with a shaky voice. Scully uprights herself and turns around. "You saw it oo?" "Yeah." "That's what I've been talking about. The farm with Mulder." "Yeah, but you said dreams, not...not hallucinations." "If we both saw it, then it can't be a hallucination." "Then it's mass hysteria." "Agent Doggett two people do not constitute a mass." "It does in my book. You don't seem surprised. Has this happened before?" "Yes, but," she adds hastily when she sees him getting angry, "It only happened once-this morning when you found me. And I didn't tell you it happened while I was awake because I thought you wouldn't believe me. Getting you to believe the dreams at all was hard enough." "Who says I believe?" he asks half-heartedly. She knows he accepts the possibility of them now, or at least he believes *her*. It's a both a relief and a frustration to know that he's experienced the same thing she has. Until now they've been hers alone, and a chance o know Mulder without anyone around to interrupt, or judge them. But she was also crumbling under the weight of their secrecy. Briefly she thinks of the baby and knows she already has enough secrets. "What I don't understand is why am I seeing these now? I never had any dreams like you did before." "Maybe it's the close proximity to source of them," she speculates. "You mean the farm." "Yes, and maybe the killer too." "You think he's hiding there in the woods right now?" The thought sends a shiver down Scully's back. Suddenly he woods look ominously dark and foreboding. If the killer is there, they're both in danger. Now is not the time o confront him. "We should go." "Agent Scully, for once I'm in complete agreement with you." The Johnson farm is only few miles down the road from where Scully and Doggett experienced the daymare. They follow the asphalt road and also pass under long electric wires that cross the road onto the next tower they innervate. When they approach the white painted fence and tall corn, Scully thinks it looks eerily like 'her' farm. A large black mailbox stands sentry at the open gate. Doggett turns onto a graveled road that makes a long, circuitous route to the house. As the tires crunch noisily over the uneven surface, the car is intercepted by two furiously barking dogs. Both are large border collies who refuse to back down, even when Doggett tries to open the car door. "One thing's for sure; whoever came up here to kill Johnson couldn't have used a car to get here," Doggett says tightly. "Sam, Rusty, come here." Doggett and Scully look up to see a thin woman on the porch. The dogs give a few more barks 'for show' and hen retreat to stand next to her. "Who are you? What do you want?" Her voice sounds suspicious, angry, with a touch of fear. "We're Agents Doggett and Scully from the FBI, ma'am. I called yesterday." Walking to the front porch, they pull out their IDs and hold them up for her perusal. The woman gives them a weary look. "Oh, more FBI. I've already told the sheriff and Mr. Crane everything I know." "Yes, ma'am we know," Scully starts, trying to soften heir position; "we'd like to speak with you about something slightly different. Are you Mrs. Johnson?" "Yes." She appraises them a little longer before turning around and opening the screen door. "You can come in if you can get past the dogs." Doggett and Scully approach the porch with more than a little trepidation. Rusty and Sam sit gleefully wagging heir tails and start barking again. When Doggett places a foot on the bottom step, one of the dogs rushes forward and growls, showing some very pointed teeth. "You got any ideas?" he asks her. Scully smiles ruefully. "Let me try." Speaking in a soft voice and moving slowly forward, Scully attempts to scale the stairs. To her and Doggett's amazement, the dogs let her pass without a scratch. She opens the door and waits for Doggett to brave the gauntlet. It only takes a slight motion forward from him to set the dogs off again. "Uh, I think I'm going to have some trouble on that. See if you can get Mrs. Johnson to call them off." Scully waits a moment before nodding and entering the farmhouse. Inside she's greeted by smells of cooking and a TV blaring cartoon noise. Two small boys sit transfixed in front of the set, watching the animated show. Scully can't see Mrs. Johnson anywhere, and realizes she must be in the kitchen. Before seeking her out, however, Scully kneels next to he oldest boy. "Are you Robert Jr.?" "Yes, ma'am," he says without turning. "I'm Agent Scully from the FBI. Do you mind if I ask you a question?" He looks at her finally with sad, innocent eyes. Scully hinks she's seen far too many children like this in the past seven years. "*You're* FBI?" he asks in a lilting southern drawl. "Shoot, you're too pretty to be FBI." Scully smiles, thinking of the impression Crane must have left when he came here. She decides to ignore the remark and pushes forward. "Robert you told the sheriff and Agent Crane that you saw lights in the sky the night your father died. Can you ell me about them?" "Nothin' to tell. It was a dream." "A dream? Are you sure of that?" "Yes, ma'am." "How do you know?" "'Cause I never woke up." His child-like explanation makes her smile. If only everything were so easy to explain. "Can you tell me about the dream?" He screws his face into one of intense concentration. The smaller boy continues to ignore them both, seemingly oblivious to the stranger in his house. "Well, the only thing I remember real well is dreamin' I was in the backyard." "You were in the backyard?" Scully shudders, thinking of he killer lurking there. "Yes ma'am. I was wonderin' how I got there, when the whole sky started exploding like fireworks or somethin'." "Did you see anything? Anything in the sky to make hose lights?" "No ma'am, but the electric tower out back started glowing red." "What happened then?" "He screamed like a girl." Both Scully and Robert Jr. turn to look at the youngest brother Bryan. "I did not!" "Did so!" "Wait, you were awake?" Scully asks incredulously. "Yes." "Did you see anything?" She can feel her heart beating faster, knowing he did. "Yes ma'am." "What?" He slowly brings a hand up with his index finger pointing outward. "You." "Boys, go wash up for lunch." Mrs. Johnson's voice scares all three of them, and they jump in unison. "Wait a minute..." Scully begins, still reeling from Bryan's revelation. "Boys," Mrs. Johnson says, ignoring Scully's comment. As the children scamper upstairs, Mrs. Johnson turns and goes into the kitchen without a backward glance. Scully follows behind her, anxious to understand why she sent he boys away. She finds Mrs. Johnson at the stove, stirring what looks like tomato soup and rice. "I don't want them involved in all this. What happened was bad enough; I don't need them making up stories oo." "Mrs. Johnson, Bryan could have seen something important; something that could lead to your husband's killer." She turns around to face Scully, a spoon in her hand. "You really think he saw *you* that night?" she asks, jabbing the spoon in Scully's direction. Scully looks away, uncomfortable under her scrutiny. "No." Mrs. Johnson turns back to the stove to continue stirring. "There are so many unexplained things about your husband's death," Scully begins gently, walking up next o her. "I just want to help catch whoever did this so he can't do it to anyone else." "My husband's dead Agent Scully. Nothing you can do will bring him back. I-I just want to keep what I've still got." Feeling defeated, Scully looks out the window past Mrs. Johnson's shoulder. She realizes that the kitchen is nearly identical to the one in her dream. She walks over to see a clothesline in the backyard. Only the poles remain as a reminder of its former use; the cord long gone and never replaced. The view of the backyard is also similar, with one large exception: there is a ninety foot electric tower in the backyard. The now familiar sound of buzzing can be heard through the open window. "When they put them up, the electric company told us here was no truth to the claims that families living under them get cancer," Mrs. Johnson says now behind Scully. "When did they put them up?" "Oh, twenty years ago, when Robert's father owned the farm. Why?" "Nothing," Scully says absently. "Mrs. Johnson, was here ever a farm down the road from you? Where the woods and fence are now?" "Yes. That used to be the Hobart farm." Where the hell is my partner? Doggett thinks as he eyes he dogs for the umpteenth time. By now they've lain down on the porch, watchful of Doggett's every move. Just when he's thinking of pulling out his gun to shoot one of them, Scully emerges looking shaken. The dogs wag their tails as she passes, but she ignores them completely. Without a backward glance, she hurries to the car and gets in. Doggett looks back at the house, but there's nothing unusual or sinister about it to cause her frantic pace. When he gets in, he notices her hands are shaking so badly, she's having a difficult time buckling her seatbelt. "Hey," he says stilling her movements with a hand. "Are you okay?" She stops and looks at him. "I will be when we get out of here." He puts the car in gear and turns around, spraying dust and gravel backward. They leave the way they came, out he gate and facing the paved road. "Where to now?" Doggett asks. "Back to the motel." Scully hadn't said anything on the way back to the motel, and he hadn't expected her to. If he's learned anything, it's that his partner becomes a silent creature when she's rying to cope. When she wants to tell him about what occurred in the house she will and on her own terms. He knows she's ruminating on it now; turning it over a few imes to digest the information slowly. She'll finally give him a preformed version of what happened; neat, clean and sanitized so it will be palatable for him. He's had to learn uncommon patience with her. He waits until they're both inside her room to ask her. "You gonna tell me what happened back there?" She sits down heavily on her bed, looking at her hands. A few moments pass before she answers. "You could have gone around the back. Mrs. Johnson said the dogs won't go back there since the murder." "I'm not talkin' about the damn dogs, I'm talkin' about you runnin' outta the house lookin' like you saw a ghost." "Maybe I did." his puts him back a little. "You wanna run that by me again?" "The youngest boy, Bryan, said he saw me in the backyard the night his father died." "He was awake?" She nods without elaborating. He decides to ignore the obvious question. "He see anything else?" "No, not that I know of. His mother interrupted us before I could ask him more about it." Suddenly, she rises from the bed and crosses to their chipped worktable in the corner. She shuffles papers around until she finds what she's looking for: a map. With deft movements, she unfolds the map and spreads it out on the table. Doggett moves in behind her to see what she's looking at. "We need a utilities map." "Why?" "Look at the locations of the farms." He leans forward to study it with her. The murders and corresponding farms appear as black circles spread loosely across the map. To most observers, the farms look randomly targeted; there are no roads or landmarks to unify their random masses. The city of Shirley appears as an arbitrary dot, as do the other small towns. "You see somethin' I don't?" "The electric transmission towers. If we can get a utilities map, I'm sure the farms will line up right along side of hem." He nods, deep in thought, knowing instinctively that she's right. "That's a good idea. Is that what's got you so spooked?" Scully looks away from him toward the bed. "No." "You need to tell me if it's got anything to do with what's going on, especially if it'll help," he says softly. She sits down at the table staring at the map and Doggett moves to sit on the other side, waiting. "Mrs. Johnson said there used to be a farm where the woods are now. A man named Hobart owned it." "Go on," he prompts. "She said he disappeared about twenty years ago and was never heard of again. He had a young wife that was emotionally fragile. She got sick after he disappeared and ended up in a hospital somewhere. The crop and farm were sold off to pay for the loans he'd taken out. The land defaulted to the bank because he didn't have any relatives o assume possession. The bank couldn't sell it because a lot of small farms were going under during that time, so he county bought it. And the county...just let it go." She paused, her face reflecting profound sadness by what had occurred. "Everything he had, everything he worked so hard for, was-just *gone*." "Like Mulder," he says quietly. Scully's head snaps up with a surprised look on her face. Doggett knows that's what she's been thinking, but she's somehow taken aback that he's put it together for himself. "The wife claimed her husband was abducted." "Abducted? What happened to the wife?" "Mrs. Johnson said she didn't know; her husband would have known." As he looks at her under the harsh motel lighting, he sees how fatigued she looks; how much the past few hours have taken out of her. The black circles under her eyes are back, and that air of fragility she tries so hard to hide is now in evidence. The healing scratch reminds him that she hasn't been herself of late. "Did you get any sleep at all last night?" he asks gently. "A little." She sounds unconvincing. "We have some time before you need to go over to the coroner's office. Why don't you take a nap and I'll order in some lunch?" "We should discuss the..." "No," he says interrupting her, "no negotiation on this. You need to get some rest. One of us has got to stay sharp." "Don't you trust me not to take off again?" "No." She nods and purses her lower lip in affirmation of his bluntness. "Okay." "I'm stayin' right here while you sleep. That way if any 'mass hysteria' decides to ensue I'll be awake for it." He smiles when he says it, trying to make light of the possibility, but he knows Scully won't return the favor. Reluctantly she lies down and curls into a ball on the bed, fully clothed with her back to him. When her breathing deepens, he finds a blanket to cover her with and spreads it over her gently. As he contemplates her small form, he wonders what it is about her that makes him want to protect and strangle her at the same time. He wonders idly if Mulder was this much trouble. "Probably," he says out loud, to no one but himself. Finding a beaten up yellow pages in a drawer, he orders pizza and salad delivered from a place called Frog's Pad. he worst thing about field work, he thinks, is the food. He turns his attention back to the map to mull over the random pattern of dots. With a red pen he inks in the locations of the two towers they saw today. The first was near the wooded area and the second in the Johnson's backyard. Using a book as a straight edge, he draws a straight line along the two dots. The third and most recent murder lays just a few feet from the stroke he's made. His eyes track up the line to see where it leads. If Scully's right, the next murder will take place there. His train of thought is interrupted when he hears laughter behind him, but it isn't Scully's. Turning toward the sound he sees that she's gone. Panicked, he bolts out of the chair and crosses to the bed. The blanket that covered her is still there, but she's clearly not. "Agent Scully?" Abruptly he feels a violent tug, as if he's being sucked into an enormous vacuum. The room around him grows dark and disappears, only to be replaced with another. Doggett now finds himself standing in a living room, surrounded by worn-out furniture. Hardwood floors shine all around him, as do the numerous windows that line the walls. An oval braided rug sits under a butler's coffee table just opposite a console TV. Pots of English Ivy and Spider plants bask in bright sunshine in a far corner. The overall effect is one of a well-loved, comfortable, and homey place to be. Doggett feels anything but comfortable in these unfamiliar surroundings. He sways on his feet, feeling completely disoriented. A low hum buzzes in his ear, like he popping of static electricity. Gut-wrenching nausea claws at his stomach. "Where the hell am I?" No answer issues from that airless room. Despite its gentile appearance, there is something sterile, almost antiseptic about this space, as if no one really lives there. He thinks it looks like a faded photograph or a drawing of a place the artist had never been. He hears voices drift in through the open windows. Staggering like a drunken man, Doggett heads for the front door. He's mildly amused to see it standing open without a doorknob in place. The screen door squeaks on rusting hinges as he stumbles through it. Blasting summer heat and bright sunshine envelop him immediately. He finds himself standing on a large front porch that encircles the house. A porch swing sways slightly to his right and wooden steps leading to a yard are in front. He looks at the swing to see the paint on the wooden slats is peeling with many layers showing hrough, like the growth rings of a tree. Somehow he manages to descend the rickety stairs to the ground. Hard-packed earth and flat stones make a walk of sorts that goes around the side of the house out of sight. Like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, he follows the path, hoping to find the motel room again. He finds the stones lead to the back of the house. A man and woman are standing in the back yard contemplating he corn. They hold one another around the waist loosely, in a close and loving fashion. Shiny red hair adorns the woman, and shaggy brown lays tousled on the man. They alone seem brightly colored, incredibly vivid against their shabby surroundings as if a colorized version of a black and white photograph or a brilliant postcard. The man is wearing blue jean overalls and a white shirt that fluoresces in the sun. The woman has a gray print dress on with bright flowers. Her hair is so red, it seems on fire. As Doggett watches, the man turns his head to nuzzle her face and plant a sweet kiss on her mouth. "Agent Scully?" Doggett asks the apparition. The man turns to him, giving Doggett a good look at his features. "Agent Mulder?" "You don't belong here," the man says. Scully doesn't turn, her attention completely captured by he man. She continues to gaze at him with a look Doggett can only say is love. Doggett thinks the man looks strange; the face smooth like a rubber Halloween mask. He shakes his head to clear it, but the phantom stays. "I said you don't belong here. This is ours. Go away." He advances on Doggett with a menacing bearing. With every step away from Scully and toward Doggett, the 'Mulder' face becomes less real and more plastic appearing. Color also leaches away from him, making him as stark as the surroundings. Doggett tries to turn toward the advancing figure to defend himself, but feels glued to the ground. Panic develops as he frantically makes an effort to shift his stance, but can't. When the man reaches him, his hands go around Doggett's neck in a punishing grip. Try as he might, Doggett can't shake loose the vise around his neck. Sparks of light and dark swim before his eyes as he is slowly strangled. Then, for the first time since he saw her here, Scully finally reacts. When she sees the battle going on between he men she finally acknowledges his presence. "What are you doing? Stop!" she shouts. She tries to come between them, to end the physical wrangling that's going on. Her attempts to break the hold on Doggett's neck are no more effective than his own. Without warning, Mulder suddenly drops his hands and stands before Scully, immobile. He shimmers brightly for a moment before becoming normal appearing again. Doggett thinks the face looks different, natural now. For a moment no one moves as this new Mulder stands before them. Finally Scully turns him toward her and reaches up to touch his face. "Is it you?" she asks with an urgent whisper. A pained expression shadows Mulder's face as he gazes at his partner. He reaches up and cups her face between his hands. "Scully?" he asks in surprised agony. As if that one word were a magic incantation, the world around them begins to fade, the corn, ground and house decomposing before Doggett's eyes. Scully starts screaming when Mulder begins to decompose too. "Nooooo" Her voice reverberates inside Doggett's head, becoming louder as the world around him fades to black. The next hing he knows he's back in the motel room and someone is knocking loudly on the door. Disoriented again, Doggett takes a moment to get his bearings. The motel room he left is back, its muddy colors replacing the vibrant ones he left behind. Frantically he walks to the bed and lifts the blanket. To his relief, Scully is inside. A quick check proves she's breathing, her heart beating, but she still hasn't woken up. She shifts over and mumbles in her sleep. The knocking gets louder and a man's voice is shouting on the other side. With growing impatience, Doggett jerks the door open. The pizza man stands on the other side. "Hey, I've been knocking for ten minutes man." "Sorry, was in the middle of something," Doggett mutters while fishing out the money to pay for lunch. "Looks like I interrupted something big." Doggett frowns as he shoves the money at the man and akes the food. It's only later when he looks in the bathroom mirror that realizes what the pizza man saw: bright reddish-black bruises in the shape of fingers along his neck.
Doggett decides to let Scully sleep through her appointment at the morgue. He knows she'll be furious, but she needs the rest and *he* needs the time to process what happened without her influence. The images of the farm and Mulder are rolling around in his brain; still fresh and jarring. It couldn't be real, that much is certain; too much of what he saw was either a faded blur, or too bright to see clearly. If what he saw is indeed a dream, why is he seeing them now and not before as Scully has? Why couldn't he move when 'Mulder' was strangling him? How the hell did he get those marks on his neck? He finally gives up trying to understand it and calls the Bureau. Even though it's a weekend, he manages to rouse someone and asks for a topographic map of the area. "That's in the middle of nowhere," the junior agent complains. "I know, but even places in the middle of nowhere are mapped by the government. Make sure all the utilities are marked agent." "Are you near a fax or computer?" "I'll check and call you back." He calls the front desk to find out if the computer he saw when they checked in can handle downloading a large graphic. He doesn't want to leave Scully to verify even hat, however brief his absence would be. The desk clerk informs him that the computer is five years old, has a memory of 24 kb and a hard drive capacity of 20 Mb. Doggett doesn't know much about computers, but even he knows that is old and slow. The fax machine is broken, so hat's out. The best he can hope for is the download won't crash the motel's ancient machine. He calls back and gives the junior agent the motel's Feedback:. All he can do now is wait. On impulse he pulls a blank piece of motel stationary out of the drawer and places it on the table before him. He makes two columns: one called Known Facts and one entitled Unknowns. The facts column contains what little they know: 1. All the murders have taken place on remote farms. 2. All the victims were white males in their thirties with young families. 3. All the victims were stable members of the community. 4. All the victims were strangled either with rope or by hand. The last victim had been strangled by hand. 5. All the victims were found in the back or front yard to be found quickly by family members. 6. No body was altered beyond that of strangulation. No peri or postmortem manipulation was ever found. 7. All the murders took place at night while the family and victim were asleep. 8. ?All the murders have taken place on farms near power ransmission towers. 9. The official FBI profile states that the killer has a demographic similar to his victims: he is a white male in his twenties or early thirties with unusual strength. He is hought to be a member of the community since it takes planning and stealth to be as successful as he has been. He is probably known to each victim and trusted. The killer has probably been in the victims' homes and is more than likely on speaking terms with each victim. Jealousy is the major motivation in each killing. Nothing is ever stolen or altered by the killer. The killer is likely a single male, or a man who was extremely unhappy in his private life. Doggett knows that Agent Crane had a list of the single males in the community and that he has ruled them all out for one reason or another. He decides to get that list for himself. The Unknown column: 1. Significance of a crop circle found the morning after every murder? 2. How was the killer able to lure a victim out of his house and kill him without anyone in the house knowing about it or hearing anything? 3. If this killer is known to the community what happened o cause him to go on a killing spree in the first place? 4. How is the killer able to get to the farms, murder his victim *and* create a crop circle without anyone seeing him? 5. Who is the killer? Doggett looks at his list, and adds a catagory at the bottom: Strange. 1. Is Scully really dreaming about the killer? How do her dreams, Mulder, and the farms relate to the murders? 2. What role, if any, do the transmission towers play in his scenario? 3. Why did the Johnson boy say he saw Scully standing in the back yard when his father was being murdered? Was he asleep and dreaming too? 4. If the Hobart farm is the origin of all this, what does it have to do with the killer? 5. Is Hobart really dead, or could he be the murderer? Approximate age currently: 45 to 50 years old-does not fit the profile. 6. Was Hobart really abducted or did he simply take off? 7. Did a crop circle appear the night he disappeared? 8. Where is Hobart's wife? With a sigh, Doggett rubs his eyes. He's no closer to seeing the truth than when he started. Later, he calls the front desk to find out the download has aken over an hour and is still printing on an old ink jet printer with several sheets of paper required to complete he job. The sheets will need to be assembled to make a otal picture. Doggett has to promise the clerk that the government will compensate him for the time and ink before he will agree to release the map. His watch tells him that it's nearly six o'clock and he finally decides to brave waking his slumbering partner. He shakes her shoulder gently. "Agent Scully?" She frowns in sleep and turns over to get away from whatever is trying to disturb her nap. Doggett sighs and ries again. "Agent Scully," he nearly shouts. his time she opens her eyes and sits straight up. She blinks several times as if trying to reconcile where she's woken up with where she expects to be. She turns toward Doggett with glassy eyes. "What time is it?" "Six o'clock." "Six o'clock? Why didn't you wake me up? I have to be at he coroners..," she says as she bolts from the bed and frantically straightens her clothing. "It's too late for that," he says interrupting her. "And I've got something more important cookin'." "More important than examining the bodies?" "Yes. We've got a few minutes. Why don't you eat?" "You have food?" "Our late lunch. I managed to put your salad on ice." She sits at the table while he retrieves two ice buckets. "The pizza's in plastic, but it might be a little soggy. Diet Pepsi's at the bottom." Scully smiles in spite of herself at his thoughtfulness. "What?" "Nothing... it's just...I never had room service quite like his," she says ruefully. "Yeah, I know. I'm sorry." "No, it's all right. More than all right." He sits across from her while she eats, waiting for a good ime to bring up the dream. As it turns out, he doesn't have to. Scully picks that moment to look up at him and sees his neck. He watches several emotions cross her face: surprise, confusion, and finally horror at the memory. Mentally he berates himself for not putting his ie back on sooner. "Your neck..." "You remember now?" "Yes. You were there too? I mean you remember it too?" "I don't know *what* I remember, but yeah I remember Mulder tryin' to kill me." "Mulder wouldn't do that." "Why? Are you tellin' me he was the killer? Cause you sure as hell weren't acting like he was." "He fooled me. He does that. He disguises himself as Mulder, so I'll come to him." "Why?" "I don't know. It's like he needs me somehow." "Can you prevent these dreams from happening?" "No. I don't know. I don't seem to have a choice. hey...just happen to me. But you know towards the end Mulder did come and *he* left. I felt it." Doggett lets that statement pass. He decides to try another ack. "Let me ask you somethin'. The house in the dream. Is the paint peeling on it? Is the porch swing old and falling apart? "No. The house is old, but it's in good shape. The porch swing is too. Why?" "I'm startin' to get the idea that we're seein' totally different things. The house I'm seein' is what it looks like oday. The house you're seein' is the way it used to look. he way killer remembers it." "Agent Doggett you sound as if you believe that." He shakes his head. "Nah, just shootin the breeze that's all." "So you think the house is still standing?" "Maybe, behind all those trees. And there's somethin' else. I think that Hobart man is still alive." "Why?" "It makes sense. He disappears/gets abducted, whatever, and comes back to find his life in ruins. His farm is gone and his wife's in an asylum. He's pissed, so he takes it out on other people." "That doesn't explain the crop circles, the towers, or the fact that he's known in the community. Mrs. Johnson said he never came back." "I think he did, but maybe his appearance is so changed no one recognizes him." "Wouldn't he be too old to kill those men?" "Agent Scully are you sayin' a man in his forties is too old to kill men with his bare hands?" he asks with mock indignity. "No, Agent Doggett," she says quickly, realizing her mistake. "I'm sure a man in his forties would be quite capable of doing that, but I think the other men would have fought him pretty hard. The coroner's report said no physical evidence such as skin under the fingernails was present on the bodies. And...he *is* too old for the profile. " "I know. It just goes round and round. Nothin' makes too much sense in this case." They let silence hang between them, each lost in their own thoughts concerning the dream. He thinks she may be allowing them to occur so she can see Mulder. He also wonders if Scully is ready to face the truth about them; to face that Mulder isn't really in them at all. Of course, that would mean admitting the dreams were real in the first place, and he isn't ready to face that himself. The phone rings shrilly, making them both jump. It's the clerk telling Doggett the printing is done. "That was the front desk. The topographic map I asked for from the bureau while you were asleep is in. We can see if your theory on the towers matches up with the murders. Come on." "You want me to go with you?" "I think under the circumstances it would be a good idea o stay close. I don't want you outta my sight from now on, okay?" Scully nods wearily in agreement. He thinks she's starting o act like a woman whose spirit's been broken. That hought frightens him more than any dream could. He buttons his shirt and hastily puts on a tie. They find the burly motel clerk stacking sheets of paper. "You're sure the feds are gonna compensate me for this?" "Yes sir. I'll put in the requisition and you should receive a check." "Should? Nah, I know how that works. You got any cash on you?" Doggett gives Scully an exasperated look before fishing in his pocket. He pulls twenty dollars out of his wallet and hands it over. "Is that enough?" The clerk grudgingly takes the cash and pockets it quickly. As Doggett takes the pages from him, he realizes he clerk matches the killer's profile in age and strength. "Are you married?" he asks on impulse. "Yeah, you got a problem with that?" "No, no, sorry. Did you grow up here?" Something about he clerk strikes Doggett as more 'big city' than 'small own'. "Nah. The wife's from here. I'm from Chicago. Southsider," he says proudly. "Do you know many people here?" "Nope, and don't plan on it. They're all a bunch of hayseeds anyway. I got about as much in common with them as a cow." "How did you end up here?" Scully asks, speaking for the first time. "My old lady's grandfather owns the motel. When he got oo old, she talked me into comin' down here and runnin' he thing. Not exactly the Ramada is it?" "Is he still alive, your grandfather-in-law?" Doggett interjects. "Yeah. He's around back. Why?" "Would you mind if we spoke to him?" "Why do you wanna talk to *him*?" he asks, suddenly suspicious. Scully steps in and says gently, "We'd just like to ask him a few questions about the community and its history." "Well, okay. He'll be real happy to talk about this hole in he wall. Thinks it's the best place on earth to live." "What's his name?" "Jack. Jack Hunt." Doggett and Scully take their map and a small role of ransparent tape procured reluctantly from the clerk. Near the far side of the motel just opposite of the old playground sits an older man on a crumbling cement patio in a 1950's steel lawn chair. The enamel coating has long since faded to a dull yellow, and the rusty legs look as if they'll snap if he rocks on them too hard. "Mr. Hunt?" The old man looks up, shielding his eyes from the sun. "Well, hello Mrs. Hobart. I wondered when you'd come back." Jack Hunt is grinning from ear to ear and looking at Scully with recognition on his face. Did she hear him correctly? Did he call her Mrs. Hobart? She glances at Doggett to see if he heard the same thing. His forehead is wrinkled in surprise along with his characteristic frown. He heard. "Mr. Hunt, I'm afraid you've made a mistake. My name is Dana Scully. I'm an agent with the FBI. " The old man squints and cocks his head to the side. "Mistake?" he asks with a furrowed brow. "Well, you sure do look like her. But come to think of it, she'd be a whole lot older than you are now. Sorry about that. My eyes aren't what they used to be." "This is my partner, Agent Doggett. We'd like to ask you some questions about the Hobarts and Shirley, if you don't mind." "Well, okay. Have a seat." Doggett and Scully sit gingerly on the two remaining lawn chairs. They look no sturdier than Mr. Hunt's and are far rustier. They make a dull scraping sound as Scully and Doggett drag them across the cement patio o bring them in closer. "You here about the stranglings?" "Yes, we're investigating the murders, but we'd like to ask you some questions about some of the people and older farms in the area. Did you know the Hobarts?" Doggett asks. "Knew 'em enough to say hello is all. They got somethin' to do with the murders?" "We're not sure. Can you tell us what you remember about them?" "They owned a farm up on Rural Road 127, about wenty years back. Nice people, kept to themselves. Wife was kinda skittish if I remember right. Nervous little thing." "And Mr. Hobart?" "Nice man. Hard worker. Farm was mortgaged to the hilt. He bought it from an old childless couple, the Doyle's" "He wasn't from Shirley?" "No. He came from Springfield. Said he always wanted o be a farmer. Went college for it and everything. I hink that's how he met his wife. She was from Gardner, upstate." "What do you remember about his disappearance?" Scully asks, speaking for the first time. She feels a sudden urgency to know all about that night. Hunt's face grows serious. He shifts uncomfortably in his chair as if he's reluctant to go further. Scully reaches a hand out and rests it gently on his knee. "It's all right, Mr. Hunt. Just tell us what you know." "I remember there was a bad storm that night," he says with a dark voice. "Lightening, thunder, and wind that ore up everything in sight; like the wrath of God comin' down on us. The next mornin' I was with the Sheriff reportin' some wind damage to the motel. Mrs. Hobart drove up, and came stumblin' into the office in errible shape. She said her husband'd gone outside in he storm, afraid the corn was gonna be ruined. She ried to keep him inside, but he said he saw something in the sky." Doggett and Scully glance at each other briefly. "At first she thought it was a twister and begged him to come back in. He wouldn't listen, just kept walking out into the corn looking up at the sky. She said the tower across the field lit up like a Christmas tree and he was suddenly surrounded by light." "By light?" "That's what she said. A bright light beam from the clouds. She said the light suddenly disappeared and so did her husband. She said she searched for him for hours before coming into town for help." "What happened?" "Sheriff and some locals looked for him, but they never found a thing." "Was a crop circle found on the farm Mr. Hunt?" Scully asks quietly. "There were circles found all over the place. Sheriff said it was from vortexes." "But Mr. Hobart was the only person to disappear that night?" "Yep. No one was killed or even hurt bad. Real shame. he farm went into default." "Mr. Hunt, do you know what happened to Mrs. Hobart? Is she still alive?" "Far as I know she's still in Springfield. Would've been here over twenty years now." "Do you know where she lives?" "Only one asylum in Springfield--Stateville. She never recovered from her husband's disappearance, poor hing; she was found wandering around every night lookin' for him. They finally sent her down there for reatment." Scully looks at Doggett. He'd been right. She was still in an asylum. She also knows exactly what they'll do next. What they *must* do next. "Thank you Mr. Hunt." They're driving out of the motel entrance, when Sheriff Kelen and his deputy drive up. Doggett stops the car and the sheriff stops with his car pointing in the opposite direction. Now they're facing each other so hey can speak through open windows, like two state roopers stopped on a center median. Sheriff Kelen is the kind of man Doggett always pictures when he thinks of small town lawmen; a man who's lived his entire life in the area, is laid back in his approach to law enforcement, and is far smarter than he appears. When they first arrived, Doggett was impressed by his presentation of the evidence, given hat no murder had ever taken place in the twenty five years he's been sheriff in Shirley. "Got worried when you and Agent Scully didn't show for the autopsy review. Everything okay?" "Sorry, something came up." He turns to look at Scully who's holding the opographic map. He knows he should share this new information with the sheriff, but he's reluctant to give it up before having a chance to examine it properly himself. It is still just a hunch, but a very good one, and he only new lead they've managed to come up with. As he holds his hand out to her, a moment passes between them. He can see she's as reluctant to give it up as he is, but realizes the sheriff will understand the importance of the map. She hands it to him wordlessly and looks past him to scrutinize the sheriff and young deputy. Doggett accepts it, and turns back to the sheriff. "We have a theory of sorts. We think the murders are happening near a of line electric transmission towers hat pass close to the farms. We think the next murder may occur along the line on this map," he says handing it over. The sheriff takes the map and thumbs through the pages briefly. Doggett continues, "You know the area better than we do. Do you think you can match the line up with the next farm?" The sheriff frowns slightly. "Think so. You sure about his?" "It's just a theory. But if there's any validity to it, you can at least watch the next farm." Sheriff Kelen nods and continues to look at the map. Doggett thinks he seems more than a little skeptical at he idea. The deputy leans over and looks at the pages along with him. His seems even more doubtful than the sheriff, but he remains mute on the subject. "I'll take this back and put it together at the station and see what I can come up with." "Good." "Where are you going now?" the deputy asks, speaking for the first time. Doggett looks at him with slight surprise. "We're...pursuing another lead." "Anything you can share?" Doggett looks at Scully who shakes her head slightly. "Nah, not yet. We'll let you know if it pans out." They part, driving off in different directions Doggett knows he's driving much faster than he should be. The highway between Shirley and Springfield is flat, wide open, and monotonous. Not that he'd slow down, if there was anything to look at. For the life of him, he still can't understand why he feels as caught up in this scenario as Scully does. They could wait 'til morning to question this woman, but he also suspects the dreams he's trying to dismiss would interfere with any sleep they might get. "Do you trust the sheriff?" Scully asks suddenly. "Yeah, why?" "I was just thinking. The profile says it's someone well- known and trusted in the community. Who's more rusted than the sheriff?" "That's true, but I think he's married and too old for the profile." Scully nods. "You're right. I guess I'm just having second thoughts about turning one of the only leads we have over to him." "I know, but he probably knows that area like the back of his hand. And he can do the surveillance on the next farm while we question Mrs. Hobart." They lapse into silence again. It's grown near dark now, he sun setting to their right. Between the diminished light and the white noise of the tires on the highway, Doggett is starting to feel fatigued. He knows he's too sleepy to drive when he swerves suddenly. "Are you okay?" Scully asks concerned. "Yeah, just tired." "Why don't you let me drive? I've had more sleep than you." He nods, knowing it's dangerous at this point to continue. Springfield is at least another hundred miles away. He pulls over to the side and waits for traffic to pass before opening his door. Scully quickly crosses to he driver's side and gets in before a truck roars past hem. Doggett is slower to move, pausing to contemplate the cornfields. He notices that the power lines are here too, paralleling he expressway for as far as the eye can see in both directions. He doesn't know why this strikes him as particularly sinister, but it does. If the killer isn't caught, he muses, he has an almost infinite number of farms to choose from. "Agent Doggett?" Scully asks from the driver's seat. He shakes his head. "Sorry." He gets in through the open passenger door, and drops wearily into the seat. "You think anything'll happen if I catch forty winks?" he asks when she's pulled out. "I don't think so. They seem to hinge on *my* sleeping patterns. Anyway, for some reason I don't think he'll come now." "Another one of your feelin's?" "Yes." Doggett settles back in the seat and drifts to sleep within minutes. His last thought before darkness descends, rests on his partner. He hopes she's right about the dreams while she's driving. The main building of Stateville Psychiatric Hospital is housed inside a turn-of-the-century Victorian building. Its four stories are made of red brick, white clapboard and black shutters. This design was meant to be charming, and could have been when it was new, but now looks somewhat ghoulish with advanced age. Layers of paint have been added over the years until it looks like a paint encrusted tomb. 'Administrative Building and Housing' is painted on a more modern sign just outside its entrance. A number of smaller, less austere structures that appear o be communal housing lay scattered behind it. Wide, park-like areas dominate the grounds to give the grounds a restful appearance. However, the look is spoiled by the tall chain-link fencing and razor wire that surrounds the entire facility. Scully looks at the building with a mixture of apprehension and fear. The answer to her dreams may lie inside, but she's still not sure what the question is. Flashing her badge at the entrance has gotten her this far, but she's not sure it will gain her entrance to Mrs. Hobart. Doggett is still sleeping in the passenger seat, blissfully unaware of their arrival. She doesn't want to wake him for a number of reasons. She somehow feels a woman- o-woman conversation with Mrs. Hobart would yield more information and scare her less. Doggett is many hings, but subtle isn't one of them. She's afraid his straightforward approach would make this woman retreat further into whatever psychosis she's experiencing. Scully trusts Doggett; trusts him with her life, but her behavior of late hasn't demonstrated that. She has to balance her instincts against the added strain this will cause in their partnership. She decides to leave Doggett in the car and let him wake on his own. He'll find her soon enough and she'll face his wrath then. He can interview Mrs. Hobart when she's finished. The door of the main entrance squeaks as she opens it. It's well after visiting hours, so the lobby is empty and dark. To her right is a lighted desk, but that too, is deserted. It appears no one inhabits this enormous, haunted-looking house. She can smell the age; feel the history of this place surround her. So many lives lived here; so many people with broken minds cared for inside these antique walls. She spies a directory near the stairwell and walks over o read the numbers in the dim lighting. The bottom and second floor are administrative offices, the third and fourth appear to house the less 'dangerous' patients. If her guess is right, Mrs. Hobart is probably in this building. "What are you doing here?" a surprised female voice booms behind her. Scully turns quickly to meet the eyes of an older woman. Her gray hair is long and pulled into a ponytail at the nape of her neck. A dark dress and shoes complete the severe 'librarian' look. "Oh, I'm sorry. I thought... you resemble one of the patients," she apologizes quickly. "Mrs. Hobart?" Scully offers. "Yes. Are you a relative?" "No." She fishes out her badge to show her. "I'm Dana Scully with the FBI. I'm actually here to ask Mrs. Hobart some questions if that's all right." "I'm Mrs. Sanders the night supervisor," she says eying Scully's credentials. "It's very late and visiting hours have ended." "I'm sorry I didn't phone first," Scully says quickly, "but I'm investigating some homicides in Mrs. Hobart's home town. It's possible she may have information helpful to the investigation." "Mrs. Hobart? How could she help? She's been here for over twenty years." "The investigation has uncovered information that the murders may have started as far back as her illness, Mrs. Sanders. I believe she may know something." Scully can see the hesitation on the supervisor's face. "It's important, Mrs. Sanders. You said I look like her, and other people have said it too. Somehow she's a part of this investigation and maybe she can help prevent the next death." "The next death? You mean there's been more than one?" "Yes, and we're running out of time before the next one occurs." "I'd like to help you Agent Scully, but there's just one problem." "What's that?" "Emma died in her sleep earlier this evening." "Emma?" Scully echoes without thinking. "That was Mrs. Hobart's first name. Emma." his wasn't what Scully was expecting to hear at all. Dead? Mrs. Hobart was dead? Sadness washes over her like cold water. During all the questioning, it never occurred to her to ask what Mrs. Hobart's first name was. A woman so identified with her husband that no one has ever mentioned her given name until now. No wonder she couldn't cope with his loss. "Was she physically ill?" "No, in fact her last physical was two months ago and she passed with flying colors." "Did she complain of anything today? Headache, chest pain?" "No. The day nurse did mention that Emma felt tired and went to bed right after supper. When the nurse went o check on her an hour later, she found her in bed. She wasn't breathing and had no heart beat. In fact, she was already cool to the touch." "Like she'd been dead for hours." "Yes, how did you know?" Scully has no idea, the idea just popped into her head. Out loud she says, "I'm a pathologist, Mrs. Sanders." "Oh, I see." "Did you see her? See the body yourself?" "Yes. I was just coming on-shift when the funeral home was bringing her downstairs. She looked peaceful; happy." "There were no marks or bruises? No sign that she'd been strangled?" "No. Why do you ask?" "Nothing, Mrs. Sanders. I'm just disappointed that I missed her." "She was a well-liked patient. Never complained, always courteous, good with the staff and kept her room clean. She'll be missed by everyone here." "May I see her room?" Scully asks softly. "Why? What good would that do?" "I might be able to find some clues; something to tell me what I need to know." Scully watches as Mrs. Sanders struggles with notion of letting Scully invade Emma's privacy. She senses that Mrs. Sanders liked her far more than she's admitting. "Please, Mrs. Sanders." Scully doesn't try to disguise he pleading out of her voice. "I know I shouldn't...but all right." It turns out that Emma Hobart's room is within the administrative building as Scully thought. It's on the fourth floor, and Mrs. Sanders has to use a key to operate the elevator. "Press the button for the fourth floor; room 442. I'll have to come up and get you later. Normally I'd escort you, but we're short handed tonight. I'll trust you not to disturb her things." "Thank you, Mrs. Sanders. I promise not to disturb anything." "I'll come up in about fifteen minutes. Don't let anyone on the elevator when you get out." Before Scully can answer, the door closes between hem. She steps back to watch the numbers slowly light as she passes each floor. The elevator makes deep clanging noises, and Scully isn't sure it's the sturdiest of compartments. When the doors open onto the fourth floor, she's immediately struck by how 'normal' appearing the floor is. Dark gray carpet lines the hall and pale green wall paper with a delicate print adorns the walls. Room 442 is at the end of the hallway near a common sitting area. The door opens without resistance to Scully's gentle push. Flipping a wall switch illuminates he modest room. Scully is immediately struck by the amount of personal items inside the room. Books, pillows, and a homey bed and dresser are crowded into the small space. Despite the disarray, Scully's eyes zero in on only one object in the room. In a corner, near the window sits an antique rocking chair. Even though it's badly worn, she knows it's *the*rocker; her dream rocking chair. Ignoring everything else, she goes to it like a moth to a flame; irresistibly drawn to the first tangible evidence hat her dreams are real. The high, carved back and grooved spindles are just as she remembers. Dark oak armrests show deep wear, as if someone sat gripping heir surfaces with great force over a long period of ime. The cloth seat has a new cover, but everything else is identical. She has the urge to sit in it, but wonders if that would be taboo; if it would be like the old-wife's tale that family members of prison wardens and executioners were never supposed to sit in an electric chair. If they do, they will befall the same fate as the luckless man who sat in it before them. Brushing the superstition and several pillows aside, she sits down and closes her eyes. She begins to rock slowly and gently in a chair that is unfamiliar and yet well-known to her. Suddenly, images sharp as crystal burst into her mind. hey aren't the dreams, but clear memories of them. She can see Mulder in her mind's eye kneel before her and wrap his arms around her waist. She can feel his soft hair as it brushes against her hands and feel his supple mouth as he kisses her. Her own longing mixed with Emma's fees like a palpable wound. She misses him, misses him so much. "Oh Mulder..." she whispers aloud. "Agent Scully?" Doggett's angry voice interrupts her reverie and she opens her eyes to his angry face. Feeling drained and defeated, she doesn't rise or apologize. "Emma's dead." "Who?" "Mrs. Hobart. That was her first name. She died in her sleep tonight." Doggett appears as shocked by the revelation as she was. "How long ago?" "About two hours. Not long after we left Shirley." "Damn strange coincidence." "Is it? Is it a coincidence?" "What are you saying? That she was killed?" "Yes, by the man in our dreams. Killed her *in* a dream. Maybe he knew we were asking questions about her, thought she'd tell us too much." Doggett shakes his head vigorously in protest. "Nah, hat doesn't make any sense at all. How could he know hat?" A loud voice interrupts them. "Please don't disturb anything." Scully looks up to find Mrs. Sanders frowning with disapproval. She gets up from the rocker immediately, feeling like a guilty intruder. She replaces the pillows she tossed to the side. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Sanders," she says quickly. "Emma's son will be here in the morning to pick up her hings, and I wouldn't want him to find her room a mess." "Her son?" Scully and Doggett chime together. "Yes, her son." "How is that possible?" Scully asks with astonishment. Mrs. Sanders frowns, as if she's about to speak ill of the dead. "Emma was pregnant when she came to us. No one knew of her condition, of course, until she was pretty far along. She couldn't keep a baby here and had no relatives." "So she had the baby and gave it away for adoption." Scully finishes. "Yes. He was adopted by a very nice couple right here in town. When he was in college, he came looking for her." "Has he been here?" Doggett asks. "Has he been in her room?" "Of course. He used to come every Sunday, when he wasn't working. He took her to lunch and read to her." "Do you have a picture of the son, Mrs. Sanders?" Scully asks with a fear-tinged voice. "Yes. Emma kept a journal; a diary of sorts." Mrs. Sanders crosses to a rickety bookcase filled with old hardback books. Scully sees that the top shelf has about ten generic-looking blue bound books on it. Mrs. Sanders takes the one furthest on the right and pulls it out. Doggett and Scully watch as she leafs through pages and settles on one. "Here you go," she says handing the book to Scully. "This was taken about two weeks ago." Doggett and Scully let out a collective gasp. A woman resembling Scully is standing next to a tall young man in his early twenties. His handsome features stare out oward the camera, and Emma is looking up at him with pride. They know who he is. Doggett and Scully look at the picture in stunned silence. The angelic face of Emma, so like Scully's, next to a man they now suspect is a killer. "Do you remember his name?" Scully asks him quietly. "He introduced himself while you were talking to he sheriff the first day we got here." "But do you remember his name?" "James Fischer." Mrs. Sanders supplies. "Yes. James Fischer." Doggett echoes. "Said his name was Jimmy." "We have to warn them..." Scully is moving before Doggett can react. "Agent Scully wait." He stops her at the door. "We don't know that he's done anything. We don't have any proof that he's committed a crime." She looks at him with heated urgency in her eyes. "We *gave* the proof away." The shrill sound of a beeper interrupts them, making them both jump. Mrs. Sanders frowns and pushes a button on the offending box. "I have an emergency downstairs. Come on, you'll have to go down with me now." "No," Doggett says with harsh authority, "we still haven't found what we need." "Do you have a search warrant?" hat gives him pause. "No, but if we could just look around..." "That's out of the question." While they argue, Scully slips behind them into he room. She loiters near the rocking chair as if contemplating it again. What she does next could get her sanctioned or worse. When she's accomplished her larceny, she brushes past Doggett to the hallway. "Let's go," she says with emphasis. Doggett turns and looks at her with unconstrained surprise. "What? You wanna just give up on this?" "Mrs. Sanders has been more than kind. Perhaps we can come back." She flashes her a falsely sweet smile, hoping Mrs. Sanders won't notice the bulges in her trench coat. She sees Doggett produce a particularly deep frown. She can also see he's struggling with letting it go. "Fine," he says at last. They follow Mrs. Sanders down the hall. Scully sees Doggett steal glances at her in the elevator, but she studiously ignores him. They're firmly escorted to the door. "Make sure you call next time," Mrs. Sanders says, before shutting the door tightly behind her. "What the hell was that about?" Doggett asks Scully's retreating back. She doesn't answer, making a beeline for the car. She unlocks the door, but hands him the keys to drive and gets in on the other side. When they're both buckled in and he's started the car, he turns to her. "You gonna tell me or not?" "Yes, just...just *go*. I'll explain once we're out of here," she says, glancing around to be sure guards are not bearing down on them. He gives her another patented Doggett face before backing out and driving through the entrance gate. he guard who let Scully in waves and Doggett waves back. "Where are we goin'?" he asks driving "The highway." "I don't know where that is. I was asleep, remember?" "Yes... I'm sorry..." Scully begins. "Save it." "I thought a woman-to-woman talk would be better than the two of us going up there together." "Which is exactly what I thought and I would have told you if you'd have woken me up." Scully lets his angered statement sink in and nods. "Yes. You're right." She knows their partnership hasn't been easy, but neither was hers and Mulder's in the beginning. She doesn't want to consider it could last as long. "So where we goin'?" Once she feels they're a sufficient distance from he hospital, Scully produces the journals she's stolen from Emma's room "These are why I wanted to leave." "Those her diaries?" "Yes. It looked like she filled one about every two o five years, so I stole the early and late ones." "You think there's evidence in there?" "Yes. And do me favor, call the sheriff's office." "At this time of night?" "I just want to be sure they're all right. If he's the one, then..." Doggett takes his cell phone out and punches in he number. The phone rings and rings, but no one picks up. "That's damn peculiar. No answer, no answering machine, nothin'," he says shutting the cell phone off. "It's him," Scully with finality. "You said it yourself. Someone trusted in the community. Even if they're on stake out, there should be a dispatcher there." He nods in agreement and calls the Chicago field office. He tells the agent on duty to reach Crane, hen send a state trooper out to Shirley to check on the sheriff. As they continue their drive back, Scully reads the first of Emma's journals to Doggett. They are full of her hopes, dreams, and nightmares. Scully finds herself becoming more and more enmeshed in this woman's story. Emma's journal September 8th ~I watched Bill go out to inspect the corn today. He's so confident that the crop will do well. I wish I felt as sure as he seems to be. If it fails, we'll probably lose the farm. If it doesn't, we'll have at least a year's respite. I finally told him about the baby. He scolded me for not telling him sooner, but I hadn't wanted to worry him. He says I worry enough for the both of us and that's probably true. He was so happy when I told him. We'll become the farm family he's always longed to have. I haven't told him about the dreams, though. They started when I first suspected I was pregnant and are becoming more frequent now. They scare me silly, and I don't know what to make of the images I'm seeing. I long to tell him, but he'll only think hey're a result of my worrying. Of course I only worry more. ~ _September 14_ ~I dreamed that Bill died last night. It was a strange and haunting dream. He was standing in he corn and suddenly fell down dead. I found his lifeless body when he didn't come home for supper. I woke up screaming, and Bill made me ell him about it. He said it was only a dream and hat he wasn't going to die. No matter how much he reassured me, I couldn't shake that feeling.~ September 16 ~Alice called and told me that Del Schmitt died of a heart attack. Phyllis went looking for him when he didn't come home. She found him out in the corn. It scared me so badly, I couldn't function at all. I went upstairs and rocked in my rocking chair until Bill came home. He tried to tell me the dream wasn't related, that he wasn't going to die, and I so wanted to believe him. He distracted me by kissing me, comforting me. I love him so. I don't think I could cope without him. ~ Scully stops reading and looks up. "What? Doggett asks, not understanding the pause. She looks into her lap. "I had that dream." "What dream? That Mulder died?" he asks with his usual practicality. It doesn't seem to occur to him that she's speaking of Emma and Bill. "No. I dreamed that exact dream, except it was Mulder and me. I was rocking in a rocking chair at a farm. Mulder came home and found me too. I old him Phyllis Schmitt's husband had died. He kissed me. That dream was in this diary." "So you're saying you've been dreaming Emma Hobart's dreams?" "No, indirectly dreaming them." "You wanna run that by me again?" "It's hard to explain, but I think the killer read the diary and is incorporating them into the dreams. I've always sensed a man's presence. In the beginning I thought it was just Mulder, but that last dream proved someone else is there too. " "And that man is Emma's son." "Yes. You said that what I see sounds like what he house used to look like and you see it as if its aged." "True, but you gotta admit it sounds far-fetched." Scully looks away and bites her lip. He's right of course, but it doesn't change her mind. Instead of commenting, she continues to read the diaries. She comes across a passage that gives credence to her theory. "Listen to this:" October 1 ~A good day except for one small incident. I brought Bill some lunch while he was fixing a section of barbed wire fencing the neighbor's cow ore down. When I leaned out the truck's window o kiss him, his cutters nicked my cheek. It bled so much it scared Bill to death and he couldn't finish the fence. He wanted to take me to the doctor's but I told him it was just a scratch and insisted that I could take of it. He drove me home and tended to the scratch himself. He spoils me so, and I love him for that.~ Scully touches the healing wound that still mares her smooth skin while she reads. "I dreamed that too." "What? You're sayin' you were cut by a dream?" "Maybe. How do you explain those bruises on your neck?" She sees Doggett reach for his collar unconsciously. They've both been marked by hese dreams. "I can't explain it. Maybe we were unconsciously acting the dreams out." "Do you really believe that?" "It makes more sense than some ghost or phantom doing it." "So you're saying either I tried to strangle you or you tried to strangle yourself?" A sly grin splits his face. "Don't tell me you haven't thought about doin' that before." Scully just stares at him for a moment, unsure how she can answer that. Finally she smiles. "Well--maybe once or twice." They're interrupted by Doggett's cell phone ringing. "Doggett." Scully watches as the smile fades from his face. He's frowning now, deep in thought. "Don't touch anything until we get there." "What is it?" Scully asks when he hangs up. "State trooper says no one's in the station, but the place is a wreck and there are signs of a struggle." Doggett makes no further comment and renews his speeding. Scully hopes she's wrong, but that 'feeling says she isn't. Shirley's police station is a one-story building that sits at he far western edge of town. It has that linear glass, aluminum, and blond brick-look that was so favored by architects in the late 1960's. A tall pole adorned with the American and Illinois flags, can be seen from miles away, distinguishing it from the other buildings that constitute he small downtown. An Ace Hardware store proclaiming the name of its owner, sits across from the station. A drugstore that used o have a real soda fountain is further down on the right. Nancy's Beauty Salon is housed in a two-story building hat was once city hall. The 'Erected in 1932' sign has been defaced by teenagers so many times; the carved letters are nearly smoothed out from sandblasting. An antique shop, shoe repair, and coffee shop complete Main Street, Shirley. All are dark now; their interiors devoid of people as Doggett and Scully drive by. Doggett notices that signs hanging in the glass doors announce closing times of several hours earlier. They are the only creatures stirring on a street that is clearly deserted. The police station is also dark, with every light out, even he one normally focused on the flags fluttering out front. As they pull into a parking spot next to a state trooper's car, Scully and Doggett glance at each other, confirming he other's suspicion that no police station should be this murky, no matter how late it is. The trooper is nowhere to be seen, and neither is the sheriff's car. Doggett can feel he hairs on the back of his neck stand up in anticipation of what might be coming. "Looks like no one's home," Scully says quietly. "That's what I'm afraid of." They get out of the car and walk up to the glass front door. Doggett stands next to Scully as they peer through he glass into the dim interior. "You see anything?" he asks. "No." A red sign informs them that the doors are locked each day after 8 pm and to call 911 or the local number if assistance is needed. Before trying the door, Doggett akes his revolver out of the holster and Scully does the same. "Agent Doggett?" The voice is startling, causing them to turn suddenly and point their guns at the source. A man in a state trooper's uniform stands before them and raises his hands in defense. "Don't shoot." "You the trooper I talked to earlier?" "Yes, I'm Dell Tote." "Where did you come from?" Scully asks with suspicion. "I was checking around back. The rear door is locked." "What about the front?" Doggett asks, his head indicating he door. "It's unlocked." "You didn't go in?" Scully interjects. "No, I followed standard procedure and waited for backup." "Which is us." "Yes, but I still haven't seen an Agent Crane. He was supposed to meet me here, too." "Did you speak to him yourself?" "No, my dispatcher said he was informed and would come right over. He was supposed to be staying at a local motel." Doggett puzzles over this last piece of information. The last he knew, Crane had left for the weekend and gone back to Chicago. He looks at the door. "Okay. Let's check inside." He opens the door and quickly checks behind it for anyone lurking there. When he finds it empty, he moves forward into the darkened office and Scully follows with he trooper in tow. The office appears torn apart. Furniture is upended, and papers are scattered all over the desks and floors. A errible fight or struggle has taken place here, leaving it looking like a crime scene. No one has bothered to clean up, or disguise what has aken place here. Anyone walking in would immediately notice the disarray. To Doggett, this indicates haste and lack of planning. They search all the corners and hiding places in the wood-paneled main room and come up empty handed. wo desks occupy this small space; one for the deputy and one for the dispatcher. The dispatcher's desk is shoved into a corner along with several gray metal filing cabinets. A radio sits atop one of he filing cabinets, occasionally emitting static into the otherwise silent office. Papers are scattered haphazardly over the smooth varnished surface of the desk. Several sheets have landed on the floor and chair. Family photos hat must have occupied the right hand corner are now on he floor all around the desk; the glass in their small gold frames smashed out. The left hand corner contains an old computer monitor and keyboard The deputy's desk, on the other hand, is relatively untouched. Files, papers and reports are stacked up neatly into piles along the edges. A calendar blotter occupies the middle with notations inked in with precise handwriting. Everything is neat, organized and has an air of barrenness. No family photos, personal mementos or coffee cups containing pencils clutter up this particular desk. It's the eye in the paper storm. The agents and trooper survey the damage with a fatalistic eye. Even though there's no blood, violence has certainly occurred here. The dispatcher should be sitting at her desk taking calls, or doing other paperwork. Doggett spies a narrow hallway at the back of the office hat he assumes contains a storage closet or toilet. And the sheriff's office. "I'll check the hallway with Trooper Tote. See if you can find anything." Doggett locates a switch, and the hallway immediately becomes illuminated by bright fluorescent lighting; deep shadows are now awash in harsh white light. From his vantage point he can see one door. It's halfway down on he right and closed. At the far end on the left there's another short hallway. If he is guessing correctly, this contains the door to the sheriff's office. Cautiously he and the trooper move down the blue painted corridor toward the first door. Opening it from he side and then moving in front they can see that it's a small bathroom. A single toilet and small sink are all that occupy the tiny room. Advancing again, Doggett and the trooper move to the end of the hallway. To the left, the hall indeed makes a left turn and a door is seen at the end on the left. To the right, is a back entrance and another door. Doggett signals the trooper to take the right side, while he gestures that he will take the left. The trooper nods his agreement and they depart in opposite directions. Weak light filters out from the door painting the opposite wall with a stripe of yellow. As Doggett inches forward, he can see the wooden door standing open about a quarter of the way. The heavy silence is broken only by the sound of his harsh breathing and the scrape of his shoes on the tiled floor. He makes it to the end of the hall without seeing anything out of place. Through the open door, he can see the sheriff is sitting to the left in his round-backed desk chair with his back facing the door. here is something odd about the way he's positioned; almost as if he's casually surveying the wall. His head is cocked to the side in a gesture of curious observation. "Sir?" he calls, then louder, "Sheriff?" Receiving no reply, Doggett nudges the door, but meets some resistance when it's most of the way open. Looking down he can see why. A woman's body is lying on the floor, her legs partially blocking the door. Her khaki uniformed shirt is stained dark with blood and more of it is pooled underneath her; separated into serum and clotted protein. She appears to have been shot in the chest and her eyes are open wide, staring in surprised horror at he white tiled ceiling above. Moving into the room cautiously, he checks all the corners and finds them clear of intruders. As he approaches the sheriff, he sees an electric cord wrapped around his neck. From the doorway, it had been hidden by the collar on his leather coat. His eyes are closed and his face wears the expressionless mask of someone totally unaware of his environment. The sheriff, too, is dead; confirmed when he checks for a pulse and finds none. A familiar sensation of cold grips Doggett's chest. As many years as he's been doing this, that initial feeling of dread when discovering a body has never gone away. It has changed in intensity from the frank horror and gut- wrenching nausea of his first murder case, to what it is now: hazy disappointment and vague sorrow. He doesn't believe in the new-age cliché that every human life leaves a psychic scar with its passing, but he does believe in waste and loss. This is a profound waste, and an enormous loss for this town. "Agent Scully!" The sound of running foot steps is preceded by the arrival of Scully and Trooper Tote. They survey the gruesome scene in much the same way Doggett did. "Go call for backup," he directs the trooper, "and get a forensic team out here." "How long you think they've been dead?" he directs at Scully. Scully's brow furrows as she surveys the bodies before her. "Without checking a temperature, I'm guessing a few hours at the most." "Looks like the sheriff was strangled first and the dispatcher was shot when she came back to investigate." "You think our killer did this? He's never used a gun before now." "I don't think he's had to before now Scully nods. "He's been very careful to plan all the other murders. He didn't plan these." "Doesn't appear so, no." Doggett glances down at the sheriff's desk to see that family photos here, too, have been vandalized. When he reaches for a frame, he sees what the sheriff may have been murdered for: the topographic map he and Scully gave to him is laid out and carefully taped together. Red circles made by hand with corresponding numbers and he names of farms dot the map. A pre-printed, heavy black line with solid black squares at regular intervals runs at an angle through the entire thing. As the line runs across the map, it comes very close to the circled farms without completely bisecting them. It's very similar to a 'best fit' linear model in a mathematical problem. As he studies the map, Scully comes around the desk to analyze it with him. "Looks like you were right," Doggett says softly, pointing o the circles. "The farms line up pretty close to the tower line and towers." "And a murder took place on each of those three farms. Is here a number four?" "Looks like it." A fourth circle with the name Lizze Farm appears after he Johnson farm's circle. Doggett and Scully look up at each other at the same ime. "That's our next victim." Scully is moving before Doggett has a chance to say anything in response. "Agent Scully!" He catches up with her at the main entrance and puts an arm out to stop her. "You don't know for sure that's the next farm. That map could have been a plant." "A plant?" "Yes. Did you notice that it was out in the open, waiting o be found? Why didn't he take it with him?" "Because he wants us to go there." "Why?" "Because he needs me." "Needs you? Needs you for what?" "Agents!" rooper Tote calls to them from outside, interrupting Scully's answer. They hurry through the door to the waiting officer. "Headquarters says they found Agent Crane's car on the side of the road half way to Chicago about two hours ago." "Anyone inside?" "No. No sign of a struggle or forced entry. They're sending a team out to investigate and the rest should be here soon to help out." "We need someone to go over the Lizze farm and check on it," Doggett says urgently. "We have reason to believe he murderer may have gone there next." "You got an address?" They're interrupted by the sound of distant thunder rolling across the sky. A cool gust of wind carrying the smell of rain blows over them. "There's a big storm brewin'. Weatherman said violent winds and rain showers are expected. Gonna be a bad night in more ways than one." Scully and Doggett both nod, knowing he's right.
As they speed along, a bright blue flash of lightning illuminates the rain slicked road for a split second. Scully frowns through the windshield. The rain is really starting to come down now. They're on their way to the Lizze farm to check on the inhabitants. Urgent calls they made to the farm went unanswered; not even a machine would pick up the phone. It fell to her and Doggett to go and find out why. Her gut told her he was waiting for them there; waiting specifically for her. He'd left a clear path to follow, like Hansel and Gretel's breadcrumbs scattered along the forest floor. She thought his state of mind was such that he no longer cared if he was caught as long as he could still have his dream life. And her. But his plan had gone awry. He'd crossed that invisible line from cold-blooded methodical planning, to hot- headed impulsive murder. There's no going back now. She knows who he is; all the pieces to this gruesome puzzle have finally fallen neatly into place. In retrospect it should have been easy to figure out who he'd been, but then hindsight is always, tragically, 20/20. He fits the profile to a T. He has a job that engenders rust in the community. He knows his neighbors well, hough they may know little to nothing about him. hey'd probably say he was friendly, kind, but kept to himself. He has few, if any, friends and certainly no close associations beyond that of the sheriff. He's single, twenty five years old, and orphaned at birth. By most accounts he had a normal childhood, but one that masked monstrous potential. It wasn't until he made contact with his birth mother and learned her ragic story that the monster decided to make its appearance. She wonders if it would have come out at all, if not for their fated meeting. Deputy Jimmy Fischer is the proverbial wolf in sheep's clothing among the people of Shirley. "He's never going to stop," she says out loud to Doggett. "Come again?" "Jimmy. He'll never stop killing until he's dead." "Or caught." "No, not even then." "What are you talking about?" "He kills people in their sleep. Somehow he invades heir dreams and gets them to go outside. At the Johnson farm he used me to lure Robert to the backyard." Doggett frowns at the supernatural turn the conversation has taken. "How did he do that?" "The old farm is right next door to the Johnson's. It's likely that Robert would have known Emma Hobart as his neighbor growing up. Jimmy used my image so he'd hink Emma was in the backyard." "Okay, let's say what you're tellin' me is true. Jimmy uses a dream to lure Robert Johnson outside for a little sleepwalking. It doesn't explain the manual strangulation, or clothesline around Johnson's neck." "For the first murder think he did manually strangle Johnson, but I don't think he needed to be present for he others." "First murder?" "Yes. The old farm butts up against their property. He wouldn't need to drive up; he could have just walked hrough the crop to get to the house." "Okay, that makes sense, but Johnson has about fifty pounds on the deputy. How does Jimmy get him to 'cooperate'? Remember there were no signs of a struggle." "Have you ever heard of cataplexy?" "Is that some kinda sleep disorder?" "Yes. During REM sleep the brain shuts off the body's ability to move by causing total relaxation of skeletal muscle-sleep paralysis. Otherwise you'd act out all your dreams. In cataplexy this occurs while the person is awake. They can't move but are aware of everything going on around them. I had something like that happen o me when I got lost the other day." "You mean when we had to come and find you?" "Yes." Scully pauses for a moment. "You know you said 'we' before. Was someone with you?" Doggett shifts in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable. "Not *with* me." She waits, knowing he has more to say. "The sheriff sent Jimmy ahead of us to find you because he knows all the back roads. He apparently does most of the patrolling near the remote farms." "You came after he found me?" "Yes, but he said he never got out of the car. I was only five minutes away waiting nearby for his call. Scully you know that if I'd known-" "It's alright John. It makes sense. I got out of the car to look up the road and had one of those dreams. I-I fell down and couldn't move at all. A man found me lying on the shoulder." She hesitates now, unsure she should tell him the rest, but knowing she has withheld information from him before and regretted it. "He bent over me to touch me and said 'I knew you'd come back to me.'" "You think that was Jimmy?" "Yes. I'm positive now. I think he's been waiting for me o come to Shirley in person." "How did he do that if he never got out of the car?" "I think he induces a dream state, or near dream state to paralyze his victims. Cataplexy is part of a triad of sleep disorders. The other two are sudden sleep attacks and hypnagogic dreams. The sleep attacks occur without warning." "And the hypna-- whatever, are what?" "They're waking dreams-vivid auditory or visual hallucinations or illusions that occur, like sleep paralysis, when the patient is in the state between wakefulness and sleep, or when coming out of a sleep attack. The patient is aware of what is going on around him or her but also experiences a vivid hallucination such the sight, sound, or voice of a long-dead parent, at he same time." Doggett chews this information over slowly. "You've been doin' some readin'." Scully smiles. "Yes. And this fits perfectly with what's been going on with us as well." "So he induces this dream state and strangles them while they're paralyzed?" "Yes. Remember when you saw me and Mulder at the old farm? Remember that you couldn't move? I think hat was the sleep induced paralysis." "So how'd I manage to get away?" "I don't think he can maintain the dream state if two people are fighting him. When it was you alone he had control, but when I realized he was hurting you we were able to fight him off." "So he killed the sheriff that way too, but he couldn't manage the dispatcher at the same time." "That's what I'm thinking." Doggett stays silent for a moment. "That still doesn't explain how you and Mulder fit into this." "I have a theory on that too-" She's suddenly interrupted by the car screeching to a halt. She feels herself being ripped out of reality by an unseen force. The interior of the car begins to dissolve and is being replaced by the interior of the Hobart farmhouse. She tries to scream, to fight the emerging dream knowing that Jimmy is controlling this illusion. In the background she can hear Doggett yelling at her, elling her to fight it too. Out of the corner of her eye she sees him grab her arm as if physical restraint were enough to keep her there. On her other side, the fake Mulder she saw in the last dream stands in the Hobart living room. He takes hold of the other arm and a tug of war ensues. As they pull with incredible force from opposite sides, she begins to feel like the wishbone at Thanksgiving dinner. "Remember, he can't fight us both," she hears Doggett yell. Looking over at the fake Mulder her resolve falters for a moment. Mulder's real face appears with an expression of profound sadness on it. There are terrible wounds on his face and neck. "Scully-" he whispers in agony. It takes all the courage she has to turn away from him and look at Doggett. She takes a deep breath, and bracing herself, pulls as hard as she can away from the dream and Mulder. She seesaws back and forth for long moments before he fake Mulder yells in raging frustration. Abruptly he let's go and Scully tumbles back to reality with a thud. Dizzy blackness fills her mind as she returns to the car. She gradually hears the sound of rain pounding on the roof of the car and the squeal of wipers against the windshield. Doggett is speaking, and his words eventually penetrate her mind. "Scully, are you all right?" Without opening her eyes she nods. "Did you see him?" she asks with a whisper. "I saw him. But it wasn't Mulder." She doesn't say anything, knowing he can't see him the way she does. Opening her eyes, she fixes him with a stare. "You know, you've never met him in person. The man in New Mexico was an imposter and you've only seen photographs. How would you know whether it was him or not?" "Agent Scully, I'm willing to accept that somethin's going on here that I don't understand including these dreams, or hallucinations, whatever, but there is no way hat was Agent Mulder." She nods and holds her forehead in her hands as a dull pounding subsides behind her eyes. "Hadn't we better keep going?" Doggett doesn't move or speak for a moment. He fixes her with a stare until she looks up. "What is it?" A flash of lightning illuminates them as he reaches across to her face. When his hand comes away there is slimy substance on it. "What the hell is this?" he asks. Scully looks the whitish-looking jelly. "I don't think you'd believe me if I told you." "What?" "I think it's ectoplasm." "Ectoplasm? You're right. I don't believe you." She emits a bleat of laughter as he pulls back out on the road and heads once again toward the Lizze farm. Unlike the police station, all the lights are on inside the
He parks the car on the long graveled driveway in front.
More rain begins to splatter on the ground as they draw
"Maybe he hasn't been here," Scully says as she approaches
"He's been here."
She seems surprised by the surety in Doggett's voice, but
Doggett gestures for them to part and cover both sides of
A television is playing loudly somewhere in the
"See if it's unlocked."
Cautiously, Scully puts a hand on the brass knob and
Moving forward, they step cautiously into the house. The
As they move forward down the hall toward the lighted
As they continue to move forward, Doggett becomes
He flashes briefly on Scully's theory of induced paralysis
As they enter the kitchen, they can see the remains of a
Doggett spies a doorway to his left and a television is
seen
Silently he mouths, one, two, three-.
They round the corner and find themselves face to face
"Are you the Lizzes?" Scully asks
"Y-yes, " the woman stammers. "I'm Sally and this is Elmer,
"Are you alone here?" Doggett asks, continuing to keep his
"Alone?" she asks in confusion.
"What??" Elmer suddenly shouts above the TV.
"He's hard of hearing," Mrs. Lizze explains.
"Is anybody else here in the house with you?" Doggett
"No."
Doggett finally lowers his gun and turns the TV's volume
"Who are they?" Elmer shouts again.
"F*B*I*," Sally yells back.
When lightning flashes and the house's lights flicker,
The Lizzes are at least seventy years old and no more than
"We're sorry to have startled you. We knocked, but no one
"We can't hear anything all the way back here with the TV
"We're looking for a man who might have come here
"No. Nobody suspicious."
"You talkin' about Jimmy?" Elmer offers helpfully.
Scully and Doggett look at each other in
surprise.
"Deputy Fischer was here tonight?"
"Yep. Said he was just checkin' up on us. He also said
Scully moves closer to Sally. "Deputy Fischer said that
"He said two FBI agents would be by to ask some questions
"How well do you know the deputy?"
"Jimmy? He's a good boy. Started comin' by to check up on
"Has he mentioned anything about the murders to
you?"
"No, just that they don't know who's doin' it. Say, you
don't
"Deputy Fischer has a girlfriend?"
"Said he had a pretty redheaded girlfriend in law
Doggett glances over at Scully, but she won't meet his
eyes.
"I think we should search the house," she says. "Do you
"Call me Sally, and yes you can go ahead. You won't find
Doggett takes the first floor and basement while Scully
"You satisfied everything's all right?" Sally
asks.
"Yes."
"I almost forgot. Jimmy said to give you
this."
Elmer Lizze is holding an envelope in his gnarled right
Scully snatches the envelope before Doggett can even
**Dana
I have Agent Crane. If you want to see him alive again,
"Don't even think about it," Doggett says
angrily.
"He said-"
"I know what the note said and you know there's no way
"He'll kill Agent Crane."
"You really think Crane's still alive?"
He can see by the look on her face that she doesn't, but
"No."
"Then let's go."
Mrs. Lizze walks them to the door and they all pause on the
"You sure you wouldn't want to stay here? Looks like the
"Thank you, Mrs. Lizze, but we have to go check the old
"Okay. You be careful then."
As a second thought, Scully turns and asks, "Did you know
"Yes. Lovely people. So tragic though. Bill disappeared on
Mrs. Lizze steps closer to whisper her next
sentence.
"Elmer says he was taken away by a UFO. Saw lights up in
"Did you believe him?" Scully asks quietly.
"About the UFOs? Nah. He was drinkin' Jack Daniels that
Scully lowers her head and small smile plays on her
lips.
"Good night, Mrs. Lizze. Be sure to lock up. Don't let
"Not likely to have visitors in this weather."
Scully and Doggett make a mad dash to the car through the
Doggett opens the door and gets in quickly. Scully opens
"You okay?"
When she doesn't react, he gets out of the car and moves
"Who you talkin' to?"
"Mulder." After descending the porch steps outside the Lizze's farm, Scully pauses by the car to watch the lightning as it splits the sky above her; bright energy branching unimpeded into distant clouds on an endless horizon. The worst thing about a storm in the country, she thinks, is that you can see everything coming at you; lightning, rain or tornados. No tall buildings or neighboring houses interfere with the broad horizon, or to impede the storm's wrath. In the next moment, she hears a familiar voice whispering in her ear. Mulder. Mulder was suddenly speaking to her. The voice told her to go to the farm; that he was waiting for her there. Oddly enough, no dream accompanies this auditory message, but she doesn't care. She's so focused on answering that she doesn't see Doggett come up to her. "Mulder?" is his incredulous response when she tells him with whom she's speaking. Suddenly embarrassed, she murmurs "Sounded like him," before opening the car door and getting in. Doggett runs to the other side and dives in after her. "What's this about Mulder?" Scully smiles self-consciously. "I thought I heard his voice." "What did he say?" Doggett asks with mild curiosity. "He said he was at the farm and he was waiting for me. He said Crane was there too." "He happen to mention if Crane was alive?" "No." "You know we shouldn't go over there don'tcha? The Lizzes' are safe and I don't think he'll try anything else in this storm." "Shouldn't we find out if Crane is alive and help him?" "We should drive back to town and get the troopers to come out with us. It's too dangerous otherwise. If he is alive, he knows procedure." "Call and have them meet us there." "Agent Scully-" "Please." Her quiet pleading is his undoing. "All right," he says pulling out his phone, "but only if we can reach the main dispatcher." After several attempts, Doggett finally gets through on a connection filled with high pitched static. He gives her information and directions, repeating himself several times before the line goes dead. "I hope she got all that," he says after hanging up. "I'm sure she did. You made her repeat it back three times," Scully says dryly. "Always pays to be thorough, Agent Scully." As they start for the farm, the wind is blowing the rain in a nearly horizontal direction, making the car skitter dangerously along the road. Scully feels Doggett struggle several times to keep it from careening off into a ditch. After what seems like an interminable length of time, they finally pull up in front of the old farmstead. Scully has a moment of deja vu looking at the woods again, but this time, Mulder doesn't materialize. She half expected him to, but the only movement she sees is caused by the wind in the trees. Doggett tries several times to recall the dispatcher to ensure their backup, but they must be far from the nearest relay tower and the storm is wreaking havoc with the cell phone. Most of the calls don't go through and the ones that do connect are too full of white noise for him to hear the other person. While he's busy with the phone, Scully scans the woods, looking for a place of egress. She believes the killer is hiding behind a simple facade; that there's a deliberate impression of impenetrability to the woods that secretes an easy entrance. He would need one to carry out murder with such stealth. Suddenly, she sees a faint light flickering through the trees at the far end of the forbidding lot. Shifting forward in her seat, she attempts to get a better look through the rain-spattered windows. In between the frantic swaying of branches and tall grasses, a bluish-white beam is cutting into the darkness. "John," she says, drawing his attention. Hanging up the phone with a deliberate frown, Doggett pockets it and looks to where she's pointing. "I see it." "We need to investigate," she says and opens the door before he can protest. Outside she pulls up the hood on an oversized windbreaker the Lizze's gave her before she left, telling her that she needed better protection against the elements than her simple pantsuit. The coat had been abandoned by a grandson, long gone to college. Doggett refused an equal offer, preferring a bare head and his own FBI issued jacket. "You'll catch your death of cold," Mrs. Lizze had scolded. "Presumably." Scully thinks she might catch her own cold, the hood is far too big and keeps slipping back as she runs toward the light. She lets it go, allowing rain to soak into her hair. Cold water drips down her face and the back of her neck, reminding her of the first X-File she investigated. Dodging around the lot's far corner, she encounters a rotted plank fence. A large section has been taken down and the imprint of muddy tire tracks mars the ground. Following the shallow ruts with her eyes, she sees what's at the end near a tree line. By then Doggett has caught up with her and they make a dash toward it. Deputy Fischer's police cruiser is stopped some one hundred feet inside the lot with the headlights turned on high beam. The brights pierce the dark recesses of the woods ahead of the it, illuminating the trees like a searchlight. Doggett stops short when he reaches the vehicle, searching for signs of a driver or occupant. Seeing neither, he moves forward toward the front, gun out and ready. Scully follows suit on the other side, mirroring his cautious approach. A quick visual search of the vehicle's interior as they pass, yields nothing unusual. "It's still warm, he says placing a hand on the car's mud spattered white hood. Across from him, Scully emits a started sound. Looking up, Doggett sees what's troubling his partner. 'I Want to Believe' is scrawled in blood-red letters inside the windshield. She sees Doggett peer at the ghoulish message with skeptical eyes. Reaching inside the driver's open window, he puts a finger to the dripping red scribble and comes back with a faint smudge of crimson across the tip. "Magic Marker." Scully purses her lips, but says nothing. "I'm sick of this guy's games," Doggett says in frustration and wipes his fingertip clean of the offending stain. "You know he's not done, not by a long shot." His head snaps up to look at her with a mixture of anger and frustration. "No, but that doesn't mean we have to play along." "What do you mean?" she asks in an edgy voice. "I mean we stop this right here. We don't go any further until the troopers arrive. I don't care if Crane is alive or not at this point, the risk is too high." Don't look any further... the strains of that tune now play in the back of her mind to remind her that monsters can deceive the best of intelligent people. Scully knows Doggett is right, but every cell in her body is screaming for her to move on; to follow the headlight's direction until she reaches its destination. She hasn't felt a pull this strong since that day she was drawn to Pennsylvania and the fiery nightmare that awaited her at the Ruskin Dam Bridge. That notion brings her speeding thoughts to screeching halt. Throughout this case, she's sensed Mulder's presence and assumed he was on a ship nearby. Could that same ship be responsible for her compulsive behavior? Is Jimmy harnessing that energy and focusing it for his own dark reasons? All thoughts of ships scatter as a scream rends the air, competing with the noise of the storm. Startled, she and Doggett look at one another to confirm what they heard. Another scream ushers the vision of a bloodied Agent Crane standing between two trees and illuminated by the cruiser's lights. Lacerated hands reach out to them in mute appeal and the face is contorted into a grotesque mask of pain. The apparition lasts only a moment and then melts like sugar in the rain. "It's a trick," Doggett says bluntly. "Yes," she acknowledges, but takes off running toward the trees in pursuit anyway. "Agent Scully!" Doggett calls in warning behind her, but she ignores him completely. Heart pounding in her ears, breath hitching in her chest, she stumbles forward over the rain soaked earth. She's so concentrated on her goal, that she hears nothing but the storm and sees nothing but the tree line. Suddenly her right arm is grabbed from behind in a vise-like grip bringing her up short. Nearly pulled to the ground by the force, she angrily turns around to face an equally furious Doggett. "Agent Scully, I said stop!" "Let go of my arm." "No, not until you listen to reason." "I need to go to the house. He's there." "Crane?" "No. I can't explain it, but I know I'll see Mulder in there, the *real* Mulder, but not if a hundred troopers are in there with us. I'm going. You can stay here or come with me." "I can stop you." "What are you going to do, handcuff me? Toss me into the car until help arrives?" "Don't think I won't," he answers in a deadly quiet tone. She knows he's not above doing just that, and it causes her to pause. Whether he'd do it in actuality was another matter and his expression speaks volumes: 'What do you do with a partner hell bent on pursuing something to the exclusion of all else?' Welcome to my club, she thinks. Several seconds pass while the storm howls around them. She knows there are a hundred reasons for him to refuse, but his hesitation gives her hope. "If we do this, you follow *me*, understand?" "Yes," she says immediately. "Wait. I want your word. I want your word as an agent and a partner; the same you'd give Agent Mulder." "What?" she asks angrily. "You heard me." A variety of emotions roil through her in response to this request. He's hitting below the belt, trying to elicit an emotional promise to ensure her cooperation. Finding no other option, she capitulates. "I promise as an agent and partner." "Good," he says, finally loosening his grip, but not letting her go completely. "Here, take this," he says fishing a large flashlight out of his pocket. He reaches into another pocket and pulls out a Maglight. The flashlight reminds her that she does need to slow down a little, to prepare better than she has been for what lies ahead. A feeling of gratitude that Doggett is with her, surges through her. "Thank you." Taking the lead, Doggett moves toward a rough looking trail and she follows close behind. It seems to take forever for them to traverse the uneven terrain. Between the wind, rain, and clawing undergrowth, their progress is greatly hampered. Scully stumbles more than once, requiring Doggett to lend a steadying arm. What will they do when they reach the house? She hates dark buildings. How many of them had she and Mulder lurched into only to meet their resident monsters? How many times had they been shot at, stabbed or bludgeoned? Too many times to count, and too many homicidal maniacs to ever keep track of. Yet here she is again, about to face another murky building that is, quite literally, a haunted house. Malevolent ghosts inhabit its old frame and there's almost certainly a homicidal maniac waiting for them to come in. Honey, I'm home. As is customary in the X-Files, they'll have to be on their guard for more reasons than the usual ones. Just as she's completing this thought, the woods end and the house comes into view. She and Doggett pause for a moment at the tree edge, just looking at it. Lightning gives them bright and occasional flashes of its battered exterior. It's old, musty, and vastly different from the visions either have had of it before. It's large and intact, but hopelessly dilapidated. 'No Trespassing' signs adorn several posts on a rusted chain link fence out front. Someone has evidently ignored the signs because the fence has been pulled up and back to permit entrance to the weed-choked yard. Windows on the top floors are still boarded up, but the bottom floor windows are free of their wooden prisons. The pristine white paint that once graced its boards has long peeled off, revealing gray and rotted siding. The porch roof has collapsed at one end but the porch swing, 'their' swing, is still attached at the other. It's just as gray as the house and only sways a little in the wind. Rust has made its hinges a solid mass, but the chain apparently still has some give. They can hear its creaky protests over the howling wind. In the middle is the front door and it's wide open. "Like breadcrumbs on the trail," Scully murmurs. "You reckon Mulder's in there?" "He's there," she says with more confidence than she feels. "Well, let's go find him." They duck under the fence and cross to the rotted porch. The steps are surprisingly strong and make no sound as they climb. The porch itself shows evidence of recent repair with new boards shoring the up the old ones from underneath. Scully realizes that it's all hidden; unless someone stood on the porch, they wouldn't see the work. She loses interest in the porch and fixes her eyes on the porch swing. Up close it's in even worse shape than she thought and experiences a feeling of inexplicable sadness at seeing it in this condition. "That mean something to you?" Doggett whispers. "Not to me. To Emma." "Then it's important to Fischer too." "Yes." He gently pulls on her arm, distracting her from the sight. "Let's go." He approaches the door and motions for her to stay put. Crossing swiftly to the other side, they now flank it. What's left of a screen door is all that's covering the front entrance. It sags with the rest of the house, rusted hinges pulling out of the doorjamb. "On three," Doggett mouths, and Scully nods. He pulls the screen door open at the proper count and it protests with a squeaking wail. If they were going to surprise anyone, that opportunity vanished with that harsh sound. Scully follows Doggett into the dark house, heart pounding, muscles tight in readiness for a potential fight. The living room is empty and no one is lurking behind the open front door. They listen for sounds of movement within the structure and watch for any sign that someone is coming for them. After several seconds, Doggett relaxes his stance. "I'll be damned," he says looking around. "This has gone to hell." "This isn't the room you saw last time?" "No. I saw a couch, a table, and a TV in that dream or illusion we had. I thought it was how the house looks now, but it musta been much earlier." "Looks like teenagers have been coming up here and making themselves at home," she says indicating a mattress and blanket on the floor. "Or a killer." "Um," she answers absently. She moves over by the stairs, which look sturdy enough, but she's not sure how much weight they'd hold. Peeling layers of paint partially conceal boards filled with dry rot and the banister wobbles precariously when she puts a hand on it. She walks past the staircase toward a photograph on the wall that has caught her eye. It's old and faded, but seems recently placed. The frame holds a photo of the living room from years long past; the kind of photo a new owner might take to document a recent purchase. Is the killer trying to recreate the old living room? Just as she's turning around, her foot encounters something solid. Swinging the flashlight in front of her, it takes Scully a moment to comprehend what's on the floor. The body of Agent Crane lies in a heap under the staircase on a moldering braided rug before her. She bends to touch his neck and finds it pulseless and cold. "John." Doggett joins her and a glance at him confirms that she isn't imagining it. "Dead?" he asks. "Yes, and for a few hours by the looks of things." Doggett crouches next to her and pushes apart the sides of Crane's coat. Halfway down, he encounters two bullets holes in the agent's chest. Dark powder marks are visible on the blue shirt indicating he was shot at close range. Pushing the coat further to the side confirms that the agent's gun is missing from the holster and a quick search indicates it's nowhere in the vicinity. "You think he was another hallucination outside?" "I don't know. Maybe. I don't know what's real anymore," Scully answers softly. "We need to check the rest of the house." "Kitchen first," she says automatically. "Kitchen?" "He's there, or has been," she says remembering that the cornfields and electric tower can be seen from its window. The only other room in the house that she's ever 'seen' in detail was in the attic and that belonged to Emma. "Remember, I'm goin' first," Doggett says. Scully nods, holding her gun at the ready, and shines the flashlight ahead of them. The kitchen is in the back as it has been in the other farmhouses. Scully thinks viewing the others was just dress rehearsal for this one, *the* kitchen. With Doggett leading Scully follows close behind. The flashlight cuts through the murk and dust revealing spiders in webs but no other creatures in the hallway. As they round a short corner into the kitchen, Scully's light flashes on a figure by the sink. She and Doggett check all the corners and behind the kitchen door which is rusted open before cautiously entering the room. The body of a man is sitting propped up against the cabinet underneath an old sink filled with a disgusting black substance. When Scully and Doggett walk closer and she shines her light on his face and they both pause. "Deputy Fischer," they chorus. They both drop down to exam the body. Doggett pushes the sides of the deputy's windbreaker apart, exposing his chest. Again, they are confronted with several bullet holes from a gun shot at close range. As with Agent Crane, his gun is missing. "Not self-inflicted either," she murmurs. "This kinda puts a crimp in our theory," Doggett says ruefully. "Yes, it does." Neither say anything as they rise and look around the kitchen. Scully is a little more than unnerved and thinks Doggett shares the sentiment. An entirely different killer than the one they envisioned is on the loose and they don't know who that is. "Is there no one he's come in contact with that he hasn't killed?" "Us, and I'm keepin' it that way." She looks up at his face to see it set with grim determination. Say what you liked about Doggett, he was fiercely protective of her and would defend her with his life. "I hope so, but this man is so single-minded." She bites her lip in consternation, contemplating the many ways this killer could make good on a threat. "Look, he's doin' the show and tell thing again. He wanted us to see this. He wants us scared." "He wants me," Scully murmurs, "so he can make the dreams a permanent reality." "It's beginnin' to look like that. Look, there's no reason to stay here now. Crane and the deputy are dead. There's nobody we need to save. Whoever is killin' people can wait. We can wait for the state troopers to get here." She notices that he leaves Mulder out of the conversation. "He could get away." "I don't think he's goin' anywhere." Scully knows he's right, but suddenly feels herself drawn irresistibly toward the window that overlooks the back yard. She steps around Fischer's body and leans over the repulsive sink. She can see a patch of earth that had once been a backyard just outside. More weeds and grasses choke the ground, as do several small trees. Portions of it appear to have been cut back so it's more traversable and slate stepping stones have been unearthed and recently replaced. With the next lightning flash, a figure appears in the center of the yard. He stands immobile, looking back at her through the inky darkness. More lightning illuminates his smooth countenance. Mulder. A ghoulish half-grin crosses the face as he raises a hand and crooks a finger in a 'come here' gesture. She's suddenly turned away from the amazing vision and confronted by Doggett's earnest eyes. "It's not him." "But-" "It's not him. You know that. Think hard." She blinks several times, barely seeing him; her eyes suddenly distant and glazed over. To her surprise Doggett shakes her. "Agent Scully!" Her vision clears and she sees a pair of worried blue eyes staring into hers. "You looked like you were fadin' out there for a second," he says in explanation. Whatever she was going to answer is interrupted by the sound of the front screen door screeching open. Before they can react, a gunshot is heard and, a bullet slams into the wall above them a split second later. |