Dreamer, an X-Files novel

DREAMER: An X-Files novel where Scully and Mulder must stop the murderous rampage of a psychic killer.

This dust cover was created by Regina Payton. Thank you Regina! Visitors are invited to read her X-Files fan fiction at her Vespers site. The photo used in this cover was very graciously donated by Sheila Barrera. (Thank you.) Please, check out her poetry at her site.

Scully and Mulder race to discover the secret of a force that has been killing a person a day for two weeks... and threatens to go on forever.

Disclaimer: The X-Files is the property of Fox. Only those story elements particular to Dreamer are the property of the author and may not be used without his permission.

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(Click here to return to the X-Files Page for 4 other stories or on main site to browse 70 topics ranging from exotic kaleidoscope designs to the strange world of lucid dreaming.)

Rated: PG: No profanity, violence or sex.

Classification: Casefile, Noromo

Length: 53,000 words

Comments: The events in this story take place shortly before Mirrors.

If you don't like the white letters on black background format, send me and I'll send you a WORD 97 version of this story with normal black letters on a white background.

The X-Files

DREAMER

A novel by

Wayne M. Schmidt

10 July 1999

(latest revision 20 July, 2002)

Needleton, Nebraska
Tuesday, 8:46 P.M.

He might not hit her if she kept her back turned. Henrietta Kamp knew her husband liked seeing her cower before he struck. If he couldn't enjoy seeing the fear in her eyes he lost interest. Sometimes it worked.

Henrietta hunched over trying to be as inconspicuous as possible on the side of the bed furthest from the door. She brushed a lock of gray hair out of her eyes and opened the leather-bound journal resting on her lap.

A stairway tread creaked.

Henrietta shuddered and concentrated on the cream-colored pages, trying to ignore the nausea churning in her stomach. She picked up a pen and began writing.

The bedroom door sighed open.

Her hand flinched. She fought to focus all her attention on the jittery scrawl coming from her pen, but couldn't block out the sound of her husband's slippers dragging across the carpet. He came around the end of the bed and stopped next to her; his brown leather slippers just visible out of the corners of her eyes. Henrietta forced her attention back to the journal. Don't look into his eyes.

"Henrietta?" Grady Kamp's gravelly voice crowded out the silence in the room.

She cringed and bent closer to her writing. Don't look up.

"Henrietta. I'm talking to you."

"Yes, Grady. I hear you." Don't look.

"So, what are you? Stupid or something? You're supposed to look at a person when they talk to you."

"I'm sorry. I... I was busy with my log." Don't look. Her hand scribbled gibberish. Henrietta couldn't tear her eyes away from his slippers. She held her breath. The slippers hesitated, pivoted, and started to step away. She glanced up and blanched; Grady's cold black eyes caught her full in the face. A malignant hunger burned out of them. Faster than she could dodge, his left hand flashed out to grab the hair on the back of her head. His right hand stretched back, ground itself into a bony fist and flew forward, smashing into her face.

She felt her head jerked side to side as he inspected the welt she could feel swelling under her cheekbone and on the side of her nose. With a grunt of satisfaction, he threw her down onto the bed and walked away.

Henrietta fought the trembling that might draw his attention back to her. Moments later she felt the mattress sag as he sat down, heard him scratch a few lines in his log and shuffle under the covers.

Henrietta rose quietly and changed for sleep, careful to keep her back toward Grady. She turned and froze when she saw he'd rolled over toward her side of the bed. The scar along the edge of his jaw shone livid white against the dark shadow of two-day-old whiskers. Her eyes darted around the room looking for a place to hide. There was none. Her shoulders sagged and she slipped between the sheets.

She cringed as his tobacco-ladened breath flowed over her.

"You're due tonight, aren't you?" he said.

A spasm shook her. "I... I think it's time, yes."

"I don't like it. Never did. You and me and a baby? What kind of a way is that to live? Especially at our age." He snorted. "You were an idiot to want one."

Hysteria scratched at the edges of her words. "The baby won't be any trouble. I'll take care of it. You won't even know it's around. I'll keep it with me and after all, it'll only be with us at night."

"Oh, I'll help take care of the thing. You can bet on that. Someone's got to teach it discipline." His eyes grew distant and his lips twisted in a cold smile. "Yeah... someone's got to teach it who's the boss."

"Grady, no!"

Henrietta felt him rise up on one elbow and lean over her, his mouth close to her face. The odor of sour beer prickled her nose.

"What did you say to me?"

Rising panic quivered in her voice. "Please, Grady, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. I'll take care of everything. Really. It won't be any trouble."

"We'll see."

"I... I just wish you had let Doctor Laum be here. It would be safer."

He jerked upright. "I've had it with that damn Doctor Laum. You shut up about him."

She turned away, cowering on the edge of the bed. "Yes, Grady."

Henrietta strained to lay quietly, hoping he couldn't feel her tremble. She sensed his murderous stare, then exhaled a deep sigh when he turned away and dug deeper under the covers. Henrietta felt tension drain out of her arms and legs.

She closed her eyes and began mouthing her nighttime litany. "I will remember my dreams. I will-"

"Henrietta, I think I'll go along with you for the delivery."

Her heart seized. "You can't! I mean, you don't have to. I'll be all right by myself."

"I'm your husband. I have the right to be there."

"But-"

"Besides, you're not in the position to argue. Are you?"

She sagged. "No."

He pulled the covers close. "So be shut up and go to sleep."

Henrietta fought her shaking and wished he'd struck her a second time. It might have satisfied him enough so he'd leave her alone. Now he'd be there with her... and their helpless child. Her eyes searched from side to side, looking for salvation in the dark room. There was none. She sobbed silently, struggling against sleep and the nightmare closing in on her.

+++

Sheriff Angus Cade checked his watch: 2 A.M. He turned left onto Barnstrom Boulevard and cruised past the shops of Needleton's main street. The gnarly grip of the spotlight's handle bit into his hand as he slewed the beam toward the store windows. The brilliant yellow shaft drilled through storefronts creating mutated shadows that drifted backward as the car rolled along.

The radio squawked at him. "Sheriff Cade? It's Hank again."

The sheriff unclipped the microphone from its holder and held down its yellowed button. "Cade here. What's up?"

"That Doctor Laum called again. He said the Kamps still aren't answering their phone and insists someone check them out."

Cade's face screwed itself into a frown. "What is this, the third time he's called?"

"Fourth."

"You explained that we can't go pounding on people's doors simply because they don't want to answer their phones?"

"Yes, sir. But he's certain something's wrong and threatened to keep calling until we make sure the Kamps are all right."

The sheriff sighed. "All right. Trevor's only two blocks away. I'll take a look. Cade out."

He hurried through the approaching intersection, turned right at the next street and watched address numbers climb as he cruised deeper into Needleton's dark interior. He nosed the black and white into the curb in front of a blocky two-story wood frame house numbered 337. Cade stepped out of the car and walked up to the Kamp's front door and rang the bell. A distant chime rang but no lights came on. He rapped on the door hard enough to make his calloused knuckles sting, still no response. The sheriff rattled the knob, locked. He pulled a flashlight from his belt and shined it through a narrow window on the side of the door. The dark, long-faded colors of the walls and furniture gave the living room a velvety-blackness that soaked up the beam. The furniture was upright and formed an undisturbed arc facing a television.

The sheriff walked the house's perimeter checking for open or broken windows. They were all intact and shut tight against the outside world. He walked around to the rear door. It was also locked. Peering inside at the kitchen; he could make out deep cracks in the floor's dried-out linoleum. They reminded him of knife wounds.

Cade walked back to the front yard and stared at the house. Its dark windows set in a dusky exterior reminded him of skull with empty eye sockets. He shrugged and turned toward the police car.

The strident ring of the Kamp's phone shattered the early morning silence. Cade spun around and counted as it rang ten times before falling into silence. A chill shivered his spine.

He marched up and pressed his thumb deep into the door bell. It rang four times before Cade gave up and beat on the door with the butt of his flashlight. The house remained silent. He strode to the middle of the front yard and flashed the light into the upstairs rooms. No lights came on. Cade chewed a lip, then about-faced and marched back to the car. He jerked the microphone of its hook. "Cade to station. You still there, Hank?"

"Right here."

"I'm going to break into the Kamp's house. Start the justification paperwork. Use non-responsiveness to phone, doorbell, and knocking for the reason. What was that doctor's name?"

"Laum."

"Right. Use his demands to investigate as additional justification. Don't wake Judge Pione. I don't need a warrant, just a form 414 in case Grady tries to sue us for breaking his door." Gagala's jaw worked as he recalled Grady Kamp's police record. "And you better send Carlos over here for backup."

"Anything suspicious?"

"Not yet but the book says use a backup, so let's do it. I'll wait." Cade dropped the microphone into its holder and began pacing up and down the sidewalk. The sound of his footfalls on the cement sounded strangely loud in the evening quite. Cade stopped and glanced at the gray house. Its shrouded windows stared back at him darkly. Cade returned to his pacing.

A black-and-white squad car pulled up to the curb. Sergeant Carlos Benido climbed out and walked up to the sheriff. The deputy's short, straight body and pointed head made him look like an artillery shell. Benido handed him a stiff sheet of paper. "Here's a copy of the 414. Hank thought it might placate Kamp if he tries to push you around."

Cade stuffed the paper into his shirt pocket. "Thanks. We'll hit the rear door. It'll cost less to fix."

They walked to the back of the house. Cade held back while Carlos set himself three feet in front of the door. As one, they brought their hands up sharply along the sides of their holsters. Their thumbs caught and popped loose the snaps that locked their revolvers into their holsters.

At Cade's nod, Carlos jacked his right boot up and slammed it into the door, close to the frame, just above the knob. Wood exploded inward as the door flew open. They held back, listening, but the house remained silent. Cade stepped into the kitchen, his shoes crunching on wood splinters, then signaled Benido to follow. The men checked the downstairs rooms. Empty beer cans and crumpled papers were scattered about the otherwise spotless house. It gave Cade in impression that two opposing forces, sloth and cleanliness, were locked in a battle for dominance. Cade shook his head and started up the stairway. "Mr. Kamp?" he yelled ahead. "It's Sheriff Cade. Are you all right?"

No one answered.

He climbed the stairs one thoughtful tread at a time, feeling his heart beat faster with each step. Cade patted the justification paperwork to make sure it was still in his pocket and realized that it offered little protection if Kamp came at him with a shotgun. Cold perspiration dotted Cade's forehead. He wished he'd put on the bulletproof vest laying safely in his car's trunk.

The sheriff's flashlight sliced a dusty beam up into the landing at the top of the stairs: empty. He stepped onto the small open area and cast around for a light switch. He slapped a wall switch to his left. The light's sudden brilliance made him blink. Three doors opened onto the landing. He walked to the one on his left: a bathroom. He pushed the middle door open with his flashlight; its metal housing scraped over the door's cracked paint. He looked inside and stared. "Good God."

"Sir?" Benido asked.

"Nothing. It's Nothing."

Cade pulled the door closed and pivoted right toward the last door. "This must be their bedroom." His mouth had gone dry so he nodded from Benido to the door.

The deputy called out. "Mr. Kamp? Mrs. Kamp? It's the police. Are you all right?"

Silence.

Cade's lips tightened as he pushed on the door. It drifted inward with a dry hiss. No light or sound came out. He squeezed around the corner of the door, his flashlight held far from his body to misdirect any attacker. The beam illuminated the edge of a bed with a rumpled bedspread. He eased through the doorway, ready to jerk back. The flashlight's beam drifted upward and came to rest on the head end of the bed. Cade's shoulders sagged. "Carlos?"

"Right here."

"Call the coroner. We've got two dead."

"What can you tell me, Doc?" Cade asked the short, reedy man bent over Henrietta Kamp's body.

Dr. Emril Brubaker straightened up. "Can't say. I should know more after the postmortem but..."

"But?"

He turned bleary eyes on the sheriff. "There's no sign of serious external trauma, nothing indicating a stroke or heart attack, no discoloration suggesting carbon-monoxide poisoning, no blotting indicative of food poisoning." Brubaker scratched the nap of his neck. "They should still be alive."

Cade watched a paramedic zip up Mrs. Kamp's black body bag. The sheriff grimaced at the expression of mixed of joy and terror frozen on her face. "What could have happened to make her look like that?"

The coroner looked at the closed bag over the tops of his glasses. "Nothing I can imagine. It certainly doesn't look like a rictus of pain."

Cade shook his head. "Pathetic little thing."

"Yes, and as sweet as they come."

The sheriff turned to look at Grady Kamp. The dead man's face seemed to gloat with murderous victory. Cade shivered and turned away. "We got a number of calls from a Doctor Laum insisting we come over and find out why they weren't answering their phone. Do you know him?"

"Laum? No, I don't believe so."

"Was there-" the distant wail of a woman's scream pierced the room. Cade spun around, "Carlos! Check that out."

"I'm on it, sir. Sounded like it came from the direction of Collins Drive."

"Get going. I'll follow in a few minutes." He ran a shaky hand through his hair and turned back to the coroner. "What a night. Anything unusual about the couple?"

"Mrs. Kamp had a facial bruise. I'd say it was put there several hours before she died."

"You think Kamp did it?"

"It wouldn't have been the first time."

"Or the tenth, from what I've heard. Did they have any children we need to notify?"

Brubaker shook his head. "No. Henrietta Kamp couldn't have children."

Medical Seminar Room B
FBI Training Facility, Quantico, Virginia
Monday, three weeks later, 8:17 A.M.

FBI Agent Fox Mulder gently pushed the door open and side-stepped into the rear of the classroom. The chairs were empty. Thirty students in subdued suits and dresses huddled two-deep in the front of the room. Between the students, Mulder caught vertical slices of a lumpy shape on a stainless steel table. Behind that he saw flashes his partner's red hair as she moved back and forth. Her arm movements and the silvery glints off something in her hand suggested the seminar's subject. He heard her measured, clear voice work it's way over the audience's heads.

"The standard incision for exposing the internal organs of the thorax takes the shape of a Y with the short arms starting at the shoulders. I prefer to use a double-ended Y with a second pair of arms branching out at the juncture of the legs and trunk because it enables a more complete exposure of the lower body."

Mulder winced as Dr. Dana Scully lifted her heels off the ground for a better angle and plunged a scalpel into the body. She slashed down from both shoulders to a point below the neck. From there she dove to the navel where she cut left and right to form the lower set of arms. The scalpel clanged as she dropped it on a stainless steel tray. She grabbed the trapezoidal flaps of skin in her small, latex-gloved hands and jerked them in opposite directions to expose the faded gray interior of her subject. "As you can see, most of the adipose tissue comes away with the dermal layer. Additional cleaning reveals the surface musculature." She picked up the scalpel again. "Incisions here and here are needed to release the covering of muscles."

Mulder waved to catch her attention. She stood on her toes to identify the hand's owner. Thirty pairs of eyes turned on him. "Yes, Agent Mulder?" Scully called out.

"When you get a chance?"

"We're almost done. Have a seat and I'll be with you in a minute."

He sniffed at the heavy smell of formaldehyde and offered her a weak smile. "I'll wait in the hallway." He eased out from under the scrutiny of her students.

Her lecture trailed out into the hallway after him. "The next step is to use bone shears to open the pulmonary cavity...."

Mulder moved further down the hall.

+++

"...which reveals the lungs, heart, pancreas and-"

"Agent Scully?"

She raised her eyes toward the voice. "Yes, Mr. Chambers?"

"Was that Spooky Muld-"

"That was Special Agent Mulder. Why do you ask?"

"Of the X-Files?"

"Yes." She felt the muscles around her lips tighten. Here it comes.

A cynical smile spread across the man's features. "And you work with him?"

"That's correct. I teach classes in forensics as time permits."

"So most of the time you investigate UFO cases?"

A twitter passed through the students.

Scully tossed the scalpel onto the metal tray; it hit with an impatient rattle. She raked the students with hardened eyes. "Agent Mulder and I have investigated cases where UFO phenomenon has been one of the theories used to explain certain events. However, these amount to less than twenty percent of our work. The X-Files Office deals with any case that does not respond to conventional investigative methodologies."

"Like the Robinson case?" a woman's voice to her right asked. "I heard Mulder solved it in one day."

Scully shook her head. "You heard wrong. It took him five days to discover Robinson dismembered his victims in an attempt to construct a perfect human being. Agent Mulder spent four sleepless nights buried in what little information the bureau had on the case, information three other teams had failed to understand. On the fifth day the solution presented itself to him. Canvassing video stores near the murders disclosed that all of them had lost Frankenstein tapes to Robinson. He was trying to succeed where Doctor Frankenstein had failed."

The students struggled to subdue their smiles.

Scully's frown deepened. "Eight people died in that case. If Agent Mulder had not solved it many more would have been lost. Try to remember that next time someone mentions the X-Files and you feel the urge to laugh."

The student's smiles faded and she retrieved the scalpel. "Now, if I may continue? Other than obvious surface trauma and skin discoloration, the condition of the internal organs is the first observation...."

Half an hour later Scully emerged from the classroom free of her latex gloves and white smock. She wore a medium blue suite that set off the color of her hair and auburn eyes. She looked up and down the hallway then walked to her left where she saw Mulder's tall, lanky form slouched on a bench. "You should have stayed, Mulder. Your legend has worked its way down to the trainee level. They wanted to hear how you solved the Robinson case in five days."

He clamored to his feet and ran a hand through his dark brown hair. "Five? I sweated that case for two weeks."

Her small, full mouth formed a faint smile. "I know, but I didn't want to shatter the Mulder mystique. By the way. you should have stayed for the autopsy demonstration. Our subject displayed several interesting anomalous conditions. We were lucky to get him."

"I doubt he appreciated his contribution as much as your students. Any fainters?"

She swept a few strands of red hair back into place. "Not one."

Mulder flashed a half-smile. "It's television. This generation grew up watching monsters bite off people's legs and beat them to death with the stumps. After that, a nice clean autopsy is a walk in the park."

Her smile broadened. "You may have a point. So, what brought you across the river from DC?"

"This." Mulder waved a computer disk at her. "Let me show you something odd."

He nodded his head to the left and rushed off down the hall. Scully followed with slow measured steps, a wry smile playing on her lips. "Why aren't I surprised to hear you say that?"

Four doors down they entered a large square room filled with computer cubicles. Mulder sat down in front of an empty work station and fed the computer his disk. Scully dragged a chair over from the adjacent cubical and sat next to him.

Mulder tapped a short cadence on the keyboard. A white-line silhouette of the United States covered with countless red dots appeared. Solid red blotches marked major urban areas.

"What is it?" she asked.

Mulder turned to her. "An accidental death profile for the entire country. The Department of National Statistics wants the FBI to investigate something they found; something your scientist's mind won't like. Watch." His fingers flew over the keyboard in a series of short bursts. Each pass reduced the number of dots on the screen. "I'm removing layers of historical accident profiles so any unusual patterns show up. And sure enough..." Mulder's finger stabbed at the heart of Nebraska. Most of the red dots had vanished. A thin, uniform scattering covered the country, except where Mulder's finger touched the screen. There, a short solid red line stretched a quarter inch from his fingernail toward the northeast corner of the state.

Scully grabbed the mouse and traced a green box around the red line. She moved the cursor to the zoom icon and clicked. The white outline of Nebraska filled the screen. The red line remained arrow-straight. Scully's brow wrinkled. "What's the time index on this study?"

He checked the information printed on the floppy disk's case. "It covers the last six months. But, the man who contacted me said the fourteen deaths you're looking at occurred over a two-week period ending last week." Mulder nodded at the computer screen. "Try moving in closer."

She clicked the zoom icon a second time. White lines and text appeared showing various boundaries and cities. The line expanded into fourteen closely spaced red dots cutting through Greeley and Wheeler counties. It started in the town of Needleton. "Serial killer?" she asked.

Mulder shook his head. "Doesn't look like it. I called the local police stations. They said all these accidents were just that, accidents."

"Odd."

"That's why the case got sent to us."

"Us?"

Mulder grinned and pulled two airline tickets out of his coat pocket. "We leave tomorrow for Needleton."

Washington DC International Airport
Tuesday, 8:07 A.M.

Scully tapped the toe of her black patent leather pump against the white linoleum in front of the security kiosk, making sure that her foot-strikes were loud enough for the guard to hear. "I don't understand what the problem is. I called an hour ago and informed airport security that Agent Mulder and myself would be carrying our weapons onto the airplane. You should have a record of the call-" she glared at the guard's name badge, "-Sergeant Kracker."

The guard's face turned bright red under Scully's hard stare. "Well, yes. I'm sure we do... somewhere. But you see, we just had a shift change and-"

Scully crossed her arms. "The information should have been passed on to the new shift. I suggest you check your records."

The guard began shuffling through the confusion of papers covering his counter. "It's got to be here somewhere. If you'll just give me a minute..."

Scully glanced at the clock mounted on the partition behind him. "Our flight leaves in ten minutes."

"Yes. I'm sure it'll only take another-"

A granite-chinned security officer in a blue uniform stepped up the station. "Kracker? What's going on here?"

The sergeant almost threw himself at the new arrival. "Captain Tournea, thank God. These two FBI agents want to take their guns aboard-"

Impatience flashed across Tournea's face. "Weapons, man. We don't call them guns in the service."

"Yes, sir. Sorry. Anyway, they want-"

"They should have called for clearance ahead of time."

"We did," Scully said flatly.

"Then there should be a record of it."

She pursed her lips. "You'd think so."

"Sergeant, where's the clipboard with the 705s?"

Kracker's eyes began jumping back and forth along the length of the counter. "It should be here someplace."

Tournea set his jaw. "Never mind." He turned to Mulder. "May I see your weapon?"

Mulder stepped forward and opened the left side of his dark gray coat to show Tournea his standard issue automatic snugged in its shoulder holster. "Okay?"

Tournea nodded. "I'll walk you through the metal detector. If you'll follow me-"

Scully stepped between the two men and unbuttoned the blazer to her black suit. The deadly looking chromed body of a nine-millimeter automatic was clipped to the waistband of her skirt. "I'm armed too."

Tournea's eyes rounded. He coughed and nodded again. "Uh, yes. Thank you." He scuttled off toward a row of metal-detector archways manned by uniformed guards. "This way, please."

A short security guard with a bulbous head that seemed to grow out of his shoulders without the benefit of a neck passed them through the detector station after Tournea spoke a few words in his ear.

"Next time ship your weapons in your bags," Tournea said as they passed him.

Mulder smiled and shrugged a blue flight bag and small gray garment bag into view. "We only have carry-on."

Tournea humphed. "Your flight's about to leave."

Scully stepped around them, "Come on, Mulder." Tournea's reaction to her carrying a weapon caused a knot of exasperation to tighten in her stomach. Mulder fell in line behind her as she lead the way down the ramp to their airplane. "I wish they wouldn't react like that," Scully said as they jostled down the narrow aisle between beige and orange-striped seats.

"Value their surprise," Mulder said. "It's the same thing that'll cause a killer to hesitate a second before shooting. That second could save your life."

"I try not to get into situations where I'll need it." She placed her black leather purse on a seat on her left. "Here's my spot."

"I'm thirty-three D," Mulder said.

"This is twenty-four B. You're eight rows further on."

Mulder ducked his head and pushed toward the rear of the plane.

Scully used her foot to slide her flight bag under the seat in front of her, then wedged her garment bag into an overhead compartment crowded with luggage and maroon airline blankets. She grimaced at the thought of the wrinkles that would be pressed into her clothes by the end of the flight.

Scully eased herself down into the economy-class seat and felt thankful, for a change, that her small size gave her room to be comfortable, unlike the man sitting in the window seat.

She estimated him to be five years older than her and he wore the dark blue suit and subdued tie typical of a businessman. A frosting of gray had begun spreading back from his temples. He fidgeted; trying to get his lineman-sized body comfortable in the too-small seat.

"Would you prefer the window seat?" the man asked, smiling at her with an open expression. "We could switch."

Scully felt her gun press against the side of her chair and cut into her left hip. She shifted, trying to move it out of the way. "No, thank you," she said in the middle of her maneuvering. "I prefer the aisle."

He nodded. "Are you traveling for business or pleasure?"

Scully squirmed. The clip holding the gun to her waistband slipped so she was sitting on a sharp corner. "What?" she said. "Oh, business." She wriggled again. The gun dug its way further under her.

He furrowed his wide forehead at her movements. "Are you all right?"

Scully reached around and slid the automatic to the front of her skirt. The brown holster and unforgiving hard lines of her weapon's handle peeked out from under her blazer. "I'm fine, thank you."

The man stared at weapon.

Scully squared her shoulders and pulled the blazer closed. "How about you?" she asked lightly.

"Uh, me?" His wide eyes hadn't moved.

"Business?"

"Yes," he said vaguely. "Business."

His face snapped up to her green eyes. "Will you excuse me?" He shuffled to his feet. "I need to... well-"

She smiled. "Of course."

Scully angled her slender legs toward the aisle. The man plastered himself against the back of the seat in front of her to avoid brushing her knees as he passed. He never returned.

The plane taxied onto the runway and engines screamed as they thrust the plane forward. Scully relaxed, enjoying the sensation of acceleration pushing her deep into the seat cushions. The plane leveled off and she reached for a copy of Airways Magazine in the pocket in front of her.

"That seat taken?" Mulder asked as he straddled over her legs and fell into the window seat.

Scully glanced up and down the aisle. "As a matter of fact, it is. Or at least it was. There was a gentleman-"

"Martin Gorfield." Mulder smiled and shook his head. "He won't be coming back."

She frowned. "How did you find out his name?"

Mulder pressed his face close to the plane's small window to ogle the landscape passing beneath them. "Funny thing. A guy plops down into an empty seat next to me right before take-off. He's all white and shaking. He introduces himself and explains a cute little redhead with a gun the size of a howitzer strapped to her waist took the seat next to him."

Mulder turned away from the window and smiled at her. "I think Mr. Gorfield suspects you're a mob enforcer."

"I hope you straightened him out."

Mulder's smile grew into a grin. "I showed him my ID and explained that the FBI was aware of your presence on the plane."

"You left it hanging like that? Letting him think that I'm some kind of a hit-man?"

"Hit-woman, actually. Or maybe you'd prefer the more politically correct hit-person?"

"Neither, thank you." She crossed her arms and bounced her right knee half a dozen times. "He said I was cute?"

"Between jitters, yes."

A smile slowly spread across her face.

"What's that for?"

"A girl can never get too much encouragement, even if it's from a disinterested source."

"I wouldn't know." Mulder took a magazine from the pocket on the back of the seat in front of him and began flipping through it.

Scully leaned to peer past his chin and out through the window. Thirty thousand feet below, the city had already fallen behind; toy houses centered in large green lots crept by with excruciating slowness. The computer image of the fourteen red points, fourteen deaths she reminded herself, flashed through Scully's mind and blotted out the scene below. She shivered.

The Eppley Airfield Security Police had managed to get Scully's message about their weapons to the gatekeepers and she and Mulder were flagged through to their shuttle connection without delay. An hour later their single-prop six-seater landed at the Central Nebraska Regional Airport outside the city of Grand Island.

Mulder signed out a white, Corolla rental while Scully searched the small airport's gift shop for a local map. She found one and discovered Needleton was a black dot an hour north on Highway 281. After a greasy lunch in the airport's cafeteria that even Mulder couldn't enjoy, they pulled out of the airport by one in the afternoon with Mulder behind the wheel.

They drove through fields of corn and wheat that stretched to the horizon. No structures broke the flat expanse. "So much for the small family farm," he said with a nod toward the fields.

Scully glanced at him quizzically. "What?"

"Big farm corporations move into an area like this and buy out the small farmers. No one lives on the land anymore. It's all done from remote sites."

Scully looked out her passenger window and traced the unbroken horizon with her eyes. "It's more efficient that way."

"Yes. But it's a machine's efficiency; cold and inhuman."

Scully gazed at the fields and empty road. "And isolated."

They topped a low rise in the road and were suddenly in Needleton. The town grew out in an ellipse from either side of the highway, which was named Barnstrom Boulevard within city limits. A four-block-long veneer of storefronts lined both sides of the street while residential neighborhoods extended outward from behind the shops. Scully studied the people on the streets. They walked energetically, wore new clothes, and drove late model cars. She assumed that times must be prosperous in Needleton, despite Mulder's comments about big business taking over the countryside.

The police station occupied the center lot on the right side of the boulevard. Mulder pulled into a visitor parking space outlined in bright yellow.

As Scully stepped out of their car, she winced at the glare of sunlight burning through a high thin layer of white clouds. Mulder came around to her side of the car and they strode across the cement sidewalk to the frosted-glass front door of the Police Department.

The station's door opened into a wide, shallow room. Directly ahead of them, a police sergeant in short-sleeved khakis sat behind a dark mahogany desk on a low platform. Dark wood doors opened on the wall behind and on either side of the him.

The man looked up as the rattle of the front door announced Scully and Mulder's arrival. His face was plump and wide and flushed pink. "May I help you?"

Mulder handed the officer his ID card. "I'm Special Agent Mulder and this is Special Agent Dana Scully. I talked to you yesterday about the recent series of deaths in Needleton. We're here to investigate."

The sergeant nodded. "I remember. Chief Cade's out right now but promised to be back in an hour. Checked into a hotel yet?"

"No," Scully said. "Do you have a recommendation?"

"Martha's Inn. Two blocks north on the left. Best place in town. I'll call ahead and tell them you're on the way."

"Thanks," Mulder said. "We'll be back later."

The hotel was a lemon yellow, three-story, colonial-style mansion with that had been converted for boarders. They climbed a wide plank stairway up to a porch that girdled the building's perimeter and stepped into the hotel's cool interior.

"Afternoon, folks," a twenty-year-old girl with honey-blonde hair said. She'd perched herself on a stool behind a newly refinished saloon bar modified to be a registration desk. "Are you the two FBI agents Barney just called about?"

Scully stepped forward. "If Barney is the desk sergeant at the police station, yes. We need two rooms, not necessarily adjoining."

The girl ate Mulder up and down with her eyes. "Two rooms, you said?"

Mulder returned the girl's smile. "Yes, two rooms."

"That's good." The girl wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. "I think I can take care of you."

Scully's expression soured. I bet you'd like to try.

The girl slid two keys attached to orange fobs toward them. "Numbers eleven and seventeen are open." Mulder reached for his. At the last minute the girl snatched it back and giggled. "Fooled you!"

Mulder's smile took on a strained edge.

"My name's Angela," she said holding out the key for him.

"I'm Agent Mulder," he said teasing the key out of her grasp.

"Agent Mulder," she repeated slowly. "Sounds impressive. Is there a first name that goes with that?"

Mulder's mouth opened, hesitated, then closed. "Yes, there is." He turned away toward the stairs leading to the second floor.

Scully picked up her key and followed him up.

Mulder stepped through his door at the head of the stairs. "Half an hour?" he asked.

"Make it forty-five minutes. I need to freshen up."

Mulder nodded and closed his door.

Scully counted the polished brass door numbers as she walked down the hall to number seventeen. She unlocked the yellow door and stepped into the room. It had a high ceiling only found in houses built early in the last century. An old-fashioned queen-sized bed with tall legs that placed the top of the mattress and inch above her waist dominated an entire wall. She walked around the room, inspecting the furnishings. A sheet of marbleized parchment paper next to the phone explained in a florid typeset that Martha Saunders opened the hotel in 1903. She'd died twenty years ago but her daughter, Sara, still ran the establishment as a family concern. Scully replaced the notice, squared it precisely with the desk's corner and turned to unpack.

An hour later they walked back into the police station. Cade met them at the door and ushered them into his office. "It's a pleasure to see you," the sheriff said as he folded himself into the oak swivel chair behind his desk. "Please, sit down."

Scully pulled a wooden chair over in front of the desk. Cade was trim and looked to be in his early forties but already sported a head of silver-white hair. It flowed up from his high forehead and bounded over his head in chromed waves. His face was tan and strong; his voice deep and resonate. She thought he'd make a good television evangelist.

Cade stared at them over the tops of his tented fingers. "You said on the phone you were interested in our rash of accidental deaths."

"Right," Mulder said.

"Then I'm afraid you've made the trip for nothing. The deaths stopped two weeks ago. I tried calling you back after I got your message but never managed to connect."

A deep crease formed in Mulder's forehead. "Stopped?"

"Well... moved on. Towns are so isolated in these parts that anything that doesn't affect the locals ceases to exist. I got a call from Sheriff Dreed in Feldsburg ten days ago. He says whatever hit us moved into his territory. We lost five people, he lost six. The city of Yardley was next. As of twelve noon they'd lost ten."

That's a total of twenty-one," Scully said. "This is an ongoing phenomenon."

Cade's frown deepened. "Very."

"What can you tell us about the people who died in Needleton?" Mulder asked.

"As much as you want to know." The sheriff handed Mulder five folders, one on each accident. "Three died in car crashes, one stepped in front of a tractor, and one walked into a stone wall, fell down and crushed her head on the sidewalk."

"Her?" Scully asked.

"Joan Montgomery. Eighty-three but sharp as a whip." He shrugged. "Or at least she was."

Mulder buried his attention in the folders.

Scully cleared her throat. "Do you have any reason to believe these accidents might be homicides made to look like accidents?"

"No," Cade said. "They all occurred in broad daylight with plenty of witnesses. No one reported anything unusual."

Mulder spoke up without taking his eyes off the folders. "Except that there was one death per day, everyday, for five days in a row."

Cade spread his hands. "Well, yes. That is a little strange. Even for a farm town."

Scully brought her eyebrows together. "Even for a farm town?"

"People don't realize that farming is one of the most hazardous occupations. All the equipment is large and powerful. Everyone's as careful as possible but accidents are common."

"Any possibility of suicides?" Scully asked.

Sheriff Cade shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "That's always a possibility. I don't think it's the case here."

"Why not?" she asked.

"I knew these people. None of them had problems serious enough to drive them to suicide. Besides, there were no suicide notes."

"Still...."

"You're right. We all have secrets. But five in one week?"

Scully crossed her legs. "Psycho-social patterns of sequential suicides have been documented."

The sheriff's face went blank. "Huh?"

Scully leaned forward. "There have been cases were suicide spreads like a disease. Even happy, well adjusted people can be infected."

"And you think that's what happened here?" Cade asked.

"It's a possibility."

"No," Mulder said.

Scully looked at him. "Why not?"

"Look at the way these people died. Infectious suicides usually result in people killing themselves in the same manner. Each of these was different."

"Let me see the files." She took them and started flipping through the pages.

Mulder snapped a finger up every time he counted off a case. "Three died in their cars but each in a different way. One ran into a telephone pole, one hit a brick wall, another spun out of control and rolled into a ditch. The fourth walked into a tractor and sounds like suicide but there's nothing to link it to the others. Joan Montgomery certainly didn't commit suicide by beating her head against a wall. Also, nothing connects these people to act as an agent of transmission."

"Accept that they were all women," Scully said and returned the files to Cade's desk.

Mulder's eyes rounded.

Cade nodded his head. "That's right, Agent Mulder. All the victims were women. Same as in Feldsburg and Yardley."

"Twenty-one women dead," Mulder said. "No men? You're sure?"

"None."

Scully turned toward Mulder. The nails of his right hand drummed the wooden arm of his chair. His eyes were focused on something beyond her ability to see. "Mulder?"

He startled. "Huh? What?"

"All of the victims were women. That supports my infectious suicide hypothesis. Their gender provides the commonality needed for transmission."

Mulder grabbed the files and tore through them again. "Not necessarily. The ages and socio-economic status of these women were far enough apart so they'd have little in common. Sheriff Cade, you said you knew these people. Did they know each other?"

"In a small town like this everybody knows something about everyone. But no, I don't believe any of them were close friends."

"What are you thinking, Mulder?" Scully asked.

"I need a detailed map of Needleton."

The sheriff stood and walked to a bookshelf. He rummaged through jumbled pamphlets until he located the one he wanted. Cade handed Mulder a folded map.

Mulder spread it out on Cade's desk. Armed with a red felt pen, Mulder flipped through the case folders. He drew an X on the map at the location of each accident. They formed a jagged line cutting northeast through Needleton.

Scully stood to look at the map. "The straightness of the line you saw on the computer monitor back at Quantico was an artifact of scale. What did you expect to find when you used this size of a map? A perfectly straight line?"

Mulder's eyes narrowed. "As a matter of fact, yes."

Needleton Police Department
Tuesday, 3:12 P.M.

"But, Mulder," Scully said. "What could induce such a phenomenon?"

He shrugged. "Nothing I can imagine, but my intuition tells me that it should have been a straight line, even at this scale."

"And now that you see it isn't?"

Mulder shook his head. "I'm still convinced it's supposed to be straight."

"But-"

"We just aren't looking at this right. When I can figure out what it is...."

Cade cleared his throat. "Excuse me, but I'm still not sure what you two are doing here." The sheriff spread his hands. "I don't see that there's anything to investigate."

"You've had five fatalities," Mulder said.

"So? None of them were murders and even if they were there'd be a question of jurisdiction."

Mulder settled into a slouch, his eyes distant.

Scully shifted forward to take over and give Mulder time to think. "Sheriff Cade, Agent Mulder and I are assigned to a section within the FBI referred to as the X-Files. This section-"

Cade frowned. "X-Files?"

She nodded. "Our charter directs us to investigate unusual phenomenon. We employ unconventional techniques to resolve crimes or," she shot a side-glance at Mulder, "events such as what may have occurred in your town that suggest something out of the ordinary."

Mulder straightened in his chair. "When the Department of National Statistics brought the straight line of deaths to the FBI's attention I sensed it had the potential to be an X case."

"So you came here to do what?" the sheriff asked. "Figure out a way to stop accidents before they happen?"

"That's just the point, Sheriff," Mulder said. "I don't think they were accidents."

"No? Then what were they?"

Mulder shrugged. "I haven't figured that out, yet."

Cade scratched the hair on the side of his head into a confusion of silvery tufts. "Well, you're welcome to look around all you want so long as you don't bother anyone. Do you need anything from me?"

Mulder pointed at the accident case files on the sheriff's desk. "May we borrow those?"

Cade nudged them toward Mulder. "They're not related to any crime, so help yourself. All I ask is that you don't get people stirred up."

Scully stood up. "Of course not, Sheriff. Thank you for your time. Mulder?"

He leaned forward to take the reports as he got up. "We'll keep in touch, Sheriff. I want to spend the rest of the day visiting the accident scenes."

Cade picked up Mulder's red-X marked map and handed it to him. "Good luck."

Mulder took it. "My instincts tell me we're not the ones who are going to need the luck, Sheriff. It's the people next in line that will want it."

Quan Residence
Yardley, Nebraska
Wednesday, 8:23 A.M.

The bone china plate shattered as it struck the kitchen floor, sending white shards skittering across the green and blue linoleum. Mrs. Rebecca Quan looked from her empty hand down to the smashed plate and back again. It was the second thing she'd broken that morning.

Exhausted from a short night's sleep, she couldn't muster the energy to get mad at herself. She sighed, got a broom and started sweeping. Her teenage son slammed to a stop before stepping into the kitchen. "Wow! What happened?"

She forced a smile. "Nothing. I just dropped a plate. Give me a minute and I'll clean it up."

"Can't. I'm late. Got my lunch yet?"

"It's in the fridge."

He grabbed the door frame with his left hand, stretched five feet into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator with his right.

"John, please get your brother and sister's lunches too. I don't feel up to taking them this morning and I hoped you would do it for me."

"Aw, Mom. You know I hate playing taxi driver."

"Please?"

"Yeah, sure. Thanks a lot, Mom." He snatched the other two lunch bags and accordioned back out of the room.

A minute later she jumped at the sound of front door slamming. Rebecca took a calming breath then finished sweeping the broken glass into a neat pile. She leaned on the broom as a wave of dizziness swept over her. Her hands spasmed, jerking the broom and scattering the pile of glass across the floor. Rebecca stared at the hands that had betrayed her. She rubbed a forearm across her brow and started sweeping again.

A young boy and girl bounded into the kitchen. "Mom broke a plate!" her daughter squealed.

"Ya," her son said. "She must be getting old. Old people drop lots of stuff."

Rebecca felt frustration shoot up her spine. "Don't use 'ya'," she began to yell, then forced calm into her voice. "Please, say 'yes'."

"Ya, right," the boy said. Where's my lunch?"

Her knuckles turned white on the broomstick. "Your brother has both your lunches. He's taking you to school today. I'm not well."

The girl stamped her foot. "You know he hates to take us. Can't you do it?"

Rebecca's body shook, fighting for self-control. "Not this morning, I'm afraid."

"Great," the children said in unison and stormed out. She flinched when the front door slammed twice.

She heard her oldest son yell at them to get in the car. The distance and walls muffled his voice, but not enough to mask his anger. Her younger children yelled, "Aw, shut-up," back at him. She heard her husband's tread as he came down the stairs.

"Morning, honey. How do you feel-" He stopped short, concern flashing across his face. "You look terrible. What's the matter?"

She scooped the shards of the broken plate and threw them into the trash. The broken pieces fell with a light tinkling. "I feel awful. I couldn't sleep after that dream."

"The one where a cloud chased you?"

She nodded wearily.

"But that was at twelve-thirty. And you were up late helping John with his homework."

She shrugged.

"Well, don't worry. It's probably nothing," he said and sat down at the kitchen's dinette.

She poured him a mug of steaming coffee, added sugar and handed it to him. Rebecca felt his eyes following her every move.

"Tell you what," he said. "This morning's schedule's light so I can take it easy for a change. Why don't I stick around and keep you company?"

She smiled, "Thanks, but I'll be okay."

He looked around the kitchen. "Where's the paper?"

"It's late today."

He sipped coffee and read snatches from yesterday's newspaper between glances in her direction. An article caught his attention.

"What did you find?" she asked.

"Oh, it's this accidental-death thing that started down in Needleton three weeks ago. This reporter says it's worked its way up here. Claims twenty-one people have died from it already."

"It? What's he talking about?" she said with a brittle edge to her voice.

"No idea," Barton Quan said looking up from the paper. "Don't worry about it, honey. This has nothing to do with us."

"Cloe says it's only affecting women and that it's moving toward our area."

"Rebecca, calm down. You're getting yourself wound up for nothing."

Her shoulders sagged. "I know. It's just that...."

"You're sure you don't want me to stay around?"

Rebecca shook her head. "Go on, Barton. I'll be fine. I'll take a nap once the house is quiet."

"You're sure?"

Rebecca struggled to brighten her smile. "Get to work and earn some money so you can take me out to dinner tonight. I'm thinking Italian."

He dropped the paper and walked over to her. "See that you take that nap."

"I will. Now go." She spun him about and shoved him playfully toward the door.

Barton laughed. "Okay! Okay! I'm going."

He left the room and Rebecca tensed for the door slam. It didn't come. Instead she heard her husband call back to her. "Italian, you said? Mario's or DeFina's?"

"DeFina's. Mario's fettuccini was like rubber last time."

"It's a date. I'll ring you at lunch."

Rebecca finished the morning dishes without incident and began the day's chores with the dusting. Half way through the living room her left leg froze in mid-step. She fell forward, breaking the fall by throwing her hands out and catching herself on an antique bookcase. The can of spray wax in her left hand dug a deep gouge into the top shelf. Her eyes searched the floor for something that could have tripped her; there was nothing.

She got a carpenter's crayon to fill in the gouge. She'd only filled half of it when her hand jerked out of control, breaking the crayon. She dropped it like it had turned into a snake.

Rebecca took three measured breaths and dragged the vacuum out of the closet. She clicked it on and began vacuuming when another spasm made her drive the vacuum's head into the coffee table's leg, cracking it. She turned the vacuum off and blinked tears out of her eyes as she collapsed on the sofa. What's happening to me?

She rubbed the wetness off her face and let fatigue close her eyes.

Rebecca Quan stood at the ninth hole's tee-off of the Yardley Public Golf Course. She tightened her grip on the new driver her husband had given her for a birthday present. She raised it in a graceful arc high over her head and swung at the red golf ball. The club's head struck the ball with a satisfying clap. The ball left a trail of blue smoke as it shot three hundred yards down the green.

She smiled. Not bad.

She took three steps and stood over the ball again. A cleft formed between her brows as she looked back the three hundred yards to the tee-off. The driver turned into a putter. She stroked the yellow ball into the cup. Her brow furrowed again at the ball's change in color. Rebecca gazed around for other players. There were none. A light breeze flapped the leaves on the trees but no rustle came to her. She looked into the wind and spotted a tiny pastel cloud drifting in her direction. A hot red flush washed over her. Please, dear God. Not again.

She put her hands up to stop it. The cloud didn't slow. It grew fast, blotting out her view of the green, the trees, everything. The cloud engulfed her. Pastel reds, blues and yellows whirling in complex eddies soaked into her skin. It was warm, moist, and comforting.

A tremor ran through the cloud. She felt it flow away from her. Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of a dark blot on the horizon, rushing closer. Her heart began hammering. She had to run away. Something was coming, something worse than the pastel cloud, something deadly. It reached out a smoky tendril to toward her.

"No!" she screamed and jerked up from the sofa, blinking herself awake. The vacuum lay on the floor where she'd dropped it. The dust cloth and broken crayon where still sitting on the bookcase. Rebecca stood shakily and smoothed her dress with trembling fingers. It was damp with perspiration.

"Don't be silly," she said aloud for the comfort of a voice in the silent house. "It was just a dream."

Outside, the slap of a heavy bundle of paper hitting cement caught her attention. "The newspaper," she said. "I'll make some fresh coffee and read the paper. Reading about other people's problems will make mine seem trivial." She shivered. The sound of her isolated voice made the house seem emptier than if she'd said nothing.

Rebecca went into the kitchen, filled the percolator with water, spooned coffee into the filter, and plugged the unit into a wall socket. The pot gurgled reassuringly.

She walked out to get the paper, stopping to open the drapes. Warm yellow sunlight flooded in, brightening the living room. She stepped outside and blinked into the glare of the early-morning sun. Cloe Dunkin waved at her from two doors up the block then returned to pruning her roses. Rebecca waved back.

She spotted the paper next to the curb and walked outed to pick it up. A flood of pastel light washed in front of her eyes as she bent. She lost her balance, felt herself falling and heard a flesh-dulled crack as her hip slammed into the edge of the curve.

"Rebecca! Rebecca!" she heard Cloe's voice through the pastel swirl. The voice drew near. "What happened? Are you all right?" Gentle hands touched her. In spite of pain burning its way outward from her hip, she smiled as the cool darkness of unconsciousness blotted out the pastel swirls.

Highway 281 north
Wednesday, 9:36 A.M.

Scully swept the barren horizon with a skeptical eye. "Why did you expect a straight line between the accident sites?"

"That's what the pattern suggests," Mulder answered.

"The five Needleton sites don't indicate that and our examination of them didn't disclose any relevant information in that direction."

"The victim's ages and lifestyles diverge too much for the type of psycho-illness you suggested to propagate so fast. The only cases where it works is within small groups of close friends."

"So, what is your theory?"

Mulder smiled and shrugged. "I don't have one, yet. But I'm not ready to accept yours. I feel I've missed some critical detail."

Scully looked out her window and murmered to herself, "I can hardly wait to hear what you come up with this time."

"What was that?"

She turned to him and smiled innocently. "Oh, nothing."

Mulder looked over to say something but caught a road sign out of the corner of his eye. "That's Highway 91 east. I think it's our turn."

Scully unfolded the map she bought in Grand Island. "The 91? Right. We stay on it about thirty miles, then north on the 14 for twenty."

"We'll be in Feldsburg by lunch."

"You and food. Any normal person who ate like you would be obese."

"It's a matter of attitude, Scully. Don't worry about it and you won't get fat. Count calories like you do and you're bound to put on-"

She glared at him. "Watch it, Mulder."

The exit ramp opened up on their right. Mulder accelerated into it and followed the ramp's smooth curve to the right onto the 91. Once the car was headed east, he pulled out a small sack and popped a sunflower seed into his mouth.

Scully watched the discarded shell fall to the floor and sighed. There goes the cleaning deposit.

An hour later they drove through a scattering of houses that marked Feldsburg's outskirts. Scully estimated the town at eight thousand. As they cruised into town, she spotted a police car parked by a take-out restaurant with the name "Beatrice's Burgers" hand-painted in black on a roadside placard. Mulder pulled in and got out to order lunch. She walked over to the squad car for directions to the police station.

Scully met Mulder at the drive-in's window just as a moon-faced woman Mulder's age pushed two bags through the service window at him. The woman's thick forearms filled the window.

"Thanks," Mulder said.

She managed to bend her thick middle enough to look out through the window. Her face, puffy and red from the heat of the kitchen, studied him a minute, then smiled. "You staying in Feldsburg the night?"

Confusion clouded Mulder's expression. "Well... yes. We're here one night."

"Well, ain't that nice. I'm Beatrice. I own this place."

Mulder took a step backward. "Glad to hear it. Now, if you'll excuse-"

"Tell you what. I close at nine. Come on back and I'll give you a good deal on a triple cheeseburger." Beatrice winked a small pig-like eye at him.

Scully nudged him with her foot. "Talk about tempting a child with candy."

Beatrice rocked her head in Scully's direction and scowled. "But lose the kid, okay?"

Mulder began shuffling backward. "Thanks, but we may have to leave early. Thanks again. Bye." He turned and dashed towards the car.

Scully held back, smiled mischievously at Mulder then turned back to Beatrice. "We have reservations at the-"

"Scully!"

She opened her hands. "Sorry. Have to run."

Scully strolled to the car and bent at the waist to look in at Mulder, comic puzzlement curled the corners of her mouth. "Why the hurry? You don't get offers like that every day."

His voice dropped to a growl. "Get in the car."

Scully climbed in and Mulder stomped on the accelerator sending up a shower of gravel as he sped fled the drive in. "Cute, Scully. Real cute. I hope you enjoyed yourself."

She dipped the end of a French fry into a small paper cup of ketchup and munched it. "Very much, thank you." She held the bag of fries out to him. "Want one?"

Mulder scowled and pressed his foot down harder on the accelerator.

The drive across town took long enough for Scully to finish her lunch. Mulder had managed two bites before he put his burger down.

"Remind you of Beatrice?"

His expression soured. "Something like that."

She laughed and grabbed his package of fries.

Five minutes later they found the police department, a one-story structure looking like a pile of red bricks. Scully stepped out of the car. The sun's brilliance beat down, cooking heat into the top of her head.

Sheriff Spencer Dreed walked out the station's door as they parked. "Agent Mulder?"

Mulder nodded.

"You made good time. Is this Agent Scully?"

Scully reached down to shake his hand. Dreed was the shortest, non-dwarf she'd ever seen. The top of his bald head was barely level with her eyes. His frame was thin and delicate-looking, but his bony handshake had strength behind it.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," she said.

Dreed smiled. "Likewise. Come on in." He had to reach up for the doorknob.

The door opened into an open room filled with scarred desks. Dreed led them on a path worn deep into yellowing linoleum to a door in what had been a windowed partition wall. The nubbled glass panels and wall had been painted olive-green. A scattering of black-and-white wanted posters taped to the opaqued windows provided the room with its only decorations. Scully noticed that the four officers sitting behind the desks were all young and like Dreed, wore immaculate uniforms that looked out of place in the dilapidated building.

Dreed saw her raised eyebrows. "Quite a contrast, isn't it? Feldsburg had a big shake-up two months ago. Two-thirds of the station's personnel got fired in an anti-corruption sting carried out by the FBI. The previous sheriff and many of his deputies had been siphoning tax money ear-marked for station repairs into their own bank accounts."

Scully stiffened, ready for an accusation against the Bureau for what it had done.

Dread caught her change in stance and put up his hands in a placating gesture. "Don't worry. No hard feelings. The people that got fired deserved it and the rest of us are thankful you people got things cleaned up." He led the way into his office. Dreed wriggled up into a regular-sized swivel chair; its back had been cut down so it wouldn't dwarf him.

Scully started to ease herself into one of two wood chairs facing the sheriff. She caught her breath when she seemed to sit on nothing and kept falling. She hit the seat bottom with a thump a fraction of a second later and glanced down. The chair's legs had been shortened to help Dreed look his guests in the eyes.

She glanced at Mulder. His chin almost rested on his knees.

Mulder shrugged at her and turned toward Dreed. "The chain of accidental deaths swept through Feldsburg ten days ago. Any new accidents since?"

"No. The news from Needleton got here before the accidents. After the first death the town panicked. Some of the people left to visit relatives. Most stayed home and locked their doors hoping they'd be safe."

"Yet six people died?" Scully asked.

The sheriff's expression turned hard. "That's right. Four were killed in car accidents, one fell off a roof, and the last walked in front of a train." He handed her a stack of folders identical to the ones they'd examined in Needleton. Scully flipped through them quickly. As she expected, they were all women. She handed the folders to Mulder.

Mulder laid them on his lap. "Sheriff, do you have a detailed street map of Feldsburg we can have? One with a one-inch to the mile scale would be perfect."

"Bound to have one here somewhere." Dreed bent over to dig through a desk drawer. He found a suitable map and handed it over.

Mulder unfolded it and started marking X's.

Dreed's forehead pinched.

Scully leaned forward. "Agent Mulder believes the arrangement of the accident sites may be important."

"I see," Dreed said.

She doubted he did.

Mulder grunted at the crooked line of red Xs on the Feldsburg map. He placed it on the floor, unfolded the Needleton map and aligned it's northern boundary to match Feldsburg's southern border. The red lines aligned perfectly. "Sheriff, I'd like to visit the accident locations."

"Sure. We'll take a squad car."

They followed Dreed outside. Scully and Mulder paused beside a black and white police car parked in front of the station but the sheriff walked past it and into the street. Dreed stopped and turned when he noticed they weren't with him. "Sorry. I forgot to tell you the first victim fell off the building across the street from the station. Her name was Barbara Lantimir."

"Nice of her to be so considerate," Mulder said.

The sign over the store they entered read Daltree's Country Wear. Inside, a solid line of gleaming cattle horns pointed at them from the perimeter of the large open room's ceiling.

Dreed waved at a middle-aged, short woman in Levis. She was busy stacking rainbow-colored tee shirts on a counter. "We're going to take a look at the roof. Okay, Clara?"

"Suit yourself, Sheriff. You know the way."

Wood stairs in the store's rear took them to the roof. They stepped out into the blinding sun. Mulder kicked at some loose pieces of gravel-covered tarpaper while Scully examined the two-foot high ridge that skirted the roof's perimeter.

"Where'd it happen?" Mulder asked.

"Over here in front," Dreed said. " Barbara tumbled over the edge and landed head first."

"What was she doing up here?" Scully asked.

"Barbara is... was... a roofing contractor. She was working up an estimate to fix some leaks."

"A lady roofer?" Mulder asked.

"It's th