Mirrors, an X-Files novel

MIRRORS: An X-Files novel where Scully and Mulder investigate an ancient evil released into the modern world.

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.

Mulder and Scully battle an ancient evil carried to present-day Washington D.C. on the dim surface of a medieval mirror.

Disclaimer: The X-Files is the property of Fox. Only those elements particular to this story 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: R for graphic violence. No profanity or sex.

Classification: Casefile; Romance, but not between Scully and Mulder

Length: 68,000 words

Comments: The events in this story take place shortly after Player.

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

The X-Files

MIRRORS

Wayne M. Schmidt

4 April 1999

(latest revision 2 September, 2001)

Pendromos Castle
Cornwall, England
1549

Edric Blackburn glared at his apprentice. "Sebastian, there is a spot on the mirror."

The man turned to face his master rather than look at the huge mirror dominating one end of the windowless stone room. "Sir? Where?"

Blackburn extended an arm clothed in brown velvet toward the mirror's lower right corner. "There. Near the bottom frame. Clean it up. Everything must be perfect for tonight."

Sebastian willed himself to look at the mirror. "I can hardly see the spot, sir. Surely his Lordship-"

Blackburn's voice dropped an octave. "I will decide our Lord's wishes in these matters. Do you challenge my authority?"

Sebastian blanched. "No, sir. Of course not. It is just that-"

"Do as you are told."

"Yes, sir." He dipped a rag into a bucket-sized cauldron of simmering water and sidled reluctantly toward the mirror.

Blackburn nodded to himself. Sebastian was typical of the men their profession attracted: tall, heavily muscled, proud of the black leather vestments tradition demanded they wear, and fearless of any human danger.

Blackburn's face darkened as the apprentice stopped three steps from the mirror. "Well?"

Sebastian swallowed and managed two more steps. He caught a glimpse of the twisted figures gouged into of the mirror's frame and began shaking.

Blackburn's expression softened and he stepped to his apprentice's side. The great mirror seemed to bulge outward as if desperate to feed an insatiable hunger. Blackburn put his hand out. A tingling crawled up his arm, drawing him into the mirror's depths. He resisted the seductive pull and forced his hand down. Blackburn turned back to Sebastian. "This is part of our heritage. It was here when I was an apprentice and, God willing, will remain beyond the time you instruct your own apprentice. Revere it, love it, and above all give it what it hungers for."

Sebastian nodded but kept his eyes down.

"Go on. Do it."

He inched close enough to reach the mirror with an outstretched arm and touched the rag to the red crustiness marring its cold surface. As soon as he wiped away the last of the spot, he jerked his arm back.

Blackburn smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. "Good. Now let us finish the preparations. Start the fire in the brazier then sweep the floor."

Sebastian grinned. "Yes, sir. Right away, sir." He jumped to his duties.

Blackburn rewarded him with an approving nod and then turned to inspect an array of gleaming instruments on a long wooden side table. Many of the instruments were old, prized possessions, worn smooth with use. He cradled a thin knife in a hand and smiled at its heft and balance. A spring clamp found it way into his other hand. The jaws opened smoothly. Blackburn sighed with pleasure and replaced the tools in their places. He stepped to the cauldron of water and added a triple handful of coarse brown salt. He tasted it, added another handful, and tasted again. He smacked his lips in approval at the water's sharp saltiness.

Blackburn strode to a chair on a low platform near the room's center and made sure its green velvet cushions were brushed clean. He turned and walked back to an upright wooden frame in the middle of the room and inspected the leather straps and buckles set firmly in each of its four corners. Everything would soon be ready.

+++

Baron Edmund Morden's heart pounded as he hurried down the corridor. The close stone walls slipped silently through the sphere of orange light cast by his torch, its flames rustling in the draft from his motion.

The tunnel ended at a timbered door. Morden paused to stroke the door with trembling fingers. Sudden impatience made him jerk open the door. In the center of the long room, three pairs of eyes turned to him. Black leather framed two pairs filled with cold determination; the third screamed silent terror.

The Baron stepped into the room. To the his left was his chair. Straight ahead a man struggled against leather restraints binding him to a wooden rack. He gasped for breath around a horsehair gag. To the right, the mirror leaned out from the wall. Torches cast flickering illumination on towering images of demons covering the walls. The torches hissed and popped, scenting the room with resinous smoke.

Morden stepped forward and settled himself into the chair and nodded at the man tied to the frame. "What is his name?"

Blackburn bowed. "Thomas Yolene, sire. A common thief who will not be missed anymore than the others."

Morden's face darkened. "I am not so sure about that. The sheriff is beginning to suspect something and we may have to stop for awhile."

Blackburn glanced over his shoulder at the mirror. The color drained from his face. "Sire? I... I would not recommend that."

The Baron stared at the mirror, his face etched with concern. "We may have no choice." He shook himself. "That can wait. It is time to get started." The Baron settled himself more comfortably. "I need something special tonight: quick and intense. Use the leg wheel and plenty of heat. I leave the rest to you."

Blackburn's expression brightened. "Yes, your Lordship. You can count on us." He turned to Sebastian. "Strap a leg wheel on him then drag the brazier and caldron over to his left side."

Blackburn stepped to the side table and began gathering an armful of heavy spring-loaded clips with toothed jaws.

Sebastian strapped a six-sided iron wheel with a long wooden bar to the ankle of Yolene's right leg. Then he dragged a brazier of glowing coals within arm's reach of the man and moved the caldron close to it.

Blackburn returned with the clamps and nodded his approval of Sebastian's arrangements. Tears streamed from Yolene's eyes as Blackburn let the clamps snap shut on his chest. Blood welled where the jaws dug into his flesh. Blackburn stepped back with a hand to his chin, examining the preparations. Sebastian stood at attention beside the frame. Blackburn smiled and turned to the Baron. "We are ready, sire."

The Baron's fingers quivered on the arms of his chair a moment, then he gave a single, quick nod.

The men sprang into motion. Sebastian's shoulder muscles swelled as he heaved the bar attached to the leg wheel upward. The wheel ground its way up Yolene's leg, shattered bones with flesh-muffled snaps. Blackburn jerked the red-hot iron from the brazier and thrust it deep into Yolene's abdomen, then tore away the gag. Before Yolene could scream, Sebastian grabbed the clamps fastened to his chest and ripped downward. Blinding agony choked Yolene's cry in his throat.

Blackburn heaved the cauldron of boiling salt water up and held it high. As Yolene's wail burst forth, Blackburn threw the searing water onto the man's torn chest. Pain beyond pain blasted Yolene's soul from his body. As his death-scream filled the room, facets cut into the ceiling directed the sound of his anguish toward the great mirror. Its surface rippled with sensuous pleasure as Yolene's cry struck it and reflected toward the Baron. Convulsions of ecstasy coursed over Morden's skin. As the echoes died out, he sighed and collapsed deeper into his chair.

Blackburn turned toward the mirror. The shimmering had died but the mirror still bowed out, hungry for more.

National Museum of Antiquities
Washington, DC
Thursday, 3:01 P.M.

Dana Scully walked slowly down the center of the museum's main hall, happy at her decision to trade her lunch time for the cool and quiet of the display rooms. Twenty feet on either side of her, parallel rows of marble columns stood at attention. Between them, heavy wood doors opened flat against the walls, inviting people to enter and view art treasures from sixteenth century England. Framed posters next to each door provided information on exhibits. The poster immediately to her left announced a display of medical and torture implements. Scully recalled Dr. Soquel's lecture on medieval medical practices and cringed. He'd pointed out that tools for both medical use and torture were made by the same guild of metalworkers. She turned into the room.

Scully's steps echoed off the room's high walls as she walked to a display of scalpels. She bent at the waist. Through the haze of fingerprinted glass, she noticed that the patina of age highlighted nicks and dents on the instruments. Blue oxidation on one handle showed a thumb-sized fingerprint. She wondered if it belonged to a careless museum worker or the knife's original owner, five hundred years ago.

The case to her left contained small hammers and chisels for opening skulls. She frowned. No anesthetics back then.

Scully worked her way methodically around the rest of the displays. The last case held ten hand-sized devices made of tarnished iron. Their size and shape made it easy to guess where most of them would have been attached to a human body. Her eyes tracked to the display's index card.

Instruments of torture circa 1540, uncovered during the 1996 excavation of a castle near the city of Newlyn in Cromwell, England. Local villagers destroyed the castle in 1553.

Scully straightened and left. Outside, a man and woman strolled by with a young girl between them. Scully watched the threesome meander up her side of the hall, smiling, pointing and whispering. The trio turned into a display room. The sweet, high pitch of the girl's voice carried through the somber hall like the ring of a bell. Scully hitched the strap of her purse higher on her shoulder. The bulk of the nine-millimeter automatic in it pressed into her side, reminding her of the years she'd given to the bureau. A longing she hadn't felt in months returned.

Scully stared after the family, then pivoted sharply and began walking across the hallway. She made it halfway when her cell phone chirped.

Thirty faces turned to glare at her. One of them, mounted on top of a security guard's uniform, shook slowly back and forth. She shrugged an apology as she reached for the phone. Half of a second ring escaped before her finger found the answer button. Scully quickly strode over behind a marble column. "Yes?" she hissed into the phone.

"It's me," Mulder's voice said. "Where are you?"

"The Museum of Antiquities. I thought-"

"Playing hooky?"

She stiffened. "I'm on my lunch break."

"Well, you better hustle back here. Skinner rejected our report on the Gorskey Case."

She smiled. "What do you mean our report? You wrote it. What happened? Did you misspell the Bureau in FBI again?"

Mulder chuckled. "Cute." His voice turned serious. "Skinner said he needs more substantiation for our initial suspicions about Gorskey and he wants it before we sign out for the day. Unless you want to clock some overtime you better get back here. I'll be in my office."

The phone clicked a disconnect at her. Scully sighed and stepped out from behind the pillar and almost ran into a woman her own age. "Oh, I'm sorry," Scully said.

The woman smiled and swept waist-length brown hair off her shoulders with her hands. "That's okay. Don't worry about it."

Scully smiled her appreciation and hurried off, narrowly missing a tall, black-haired man coming toward her. She stepped around him and marched out of the exit.

+++

The man watched the red-haired woman disappear through the museum's front door before turning back in time to see woman with the long brown hair step into the exhibit room. He quickly scanned the museum's interior, then followed her.

National Museum of Antiquities
Washington DC
Thursday, 3:24 P.M.

Jane Moorpark stepped into the exhibit room and smiled at the sensation of the cool marble walls pulling summer's heat from her clothes. It was this stony chill and not the artwork that had drawn her to the museum. She had begged the afternoon off when the air conditioning failed in the legal secretariess' office where she worked. Her supervisor, with a thought to asking her out Saturday night, had smiled sympathetically and agreed.

She enjoyed the museum. It was never crowded, admission was free, and the oversized air-conditioning, designed to protect antiques, made little work of keeping her comfortable. Jane also enjoyed meeting the kind of men the museum attracted: businessman who could afford to take afternoons off and looked trim in tailor-made suits. Someone like the man who had been watching her for the last half hour.

+++

Robert Simm was a close match for Jane Moorpark's concept of the ideal man. His suit wasn't tailored made but had been expertly altered fit his athletic body. He wasn't the executive of a large corporation but did own a successful, high-end stereo store. He was thirty-eight, had a strong rugged face, and unmarried. Robert Simm wanted very much to get married.

Like Jane Moorpark, Simm frequented museums to meet his idea of a cultured woman. Jane's stylish clothes, poise, figure, attractive face and waist-length, mahogany hair had immediately captured his attention. He watched her with just enough persistence that she'd notice without making it look like he staring. The last half-hour had been enjoyable, watching her and knowing she knew he had been doing it. She hadn't seemed to mind the attention and he resolved to talk to her as soon as he saw a reasonable opening.

+++

Jane decided it was time to focus her attention on some piece of art long enough for the man following her to come over and start a conversation. Looking around the large empty room, she spotted a wall-filling landscape to the right which she could enjoy while waiting for him to join her. There was a huge, age-stained mirror hanging heavily on the wall opposite the painting. A coquettish smile crossed her lips.

She walked to the mirror and after taking out an old compact, turned her back to the wall. Using the mirror in the compact's lid, she inspected the reflection of the back of her head in the mirror leaning over her. She let her eyes slip over the top of the mirror to see if the man had followed her. He entered the room, looked around, and smiled as he spotted her. He turned away and began studying an urn covered with garish floral patterns.

Behind her, the great mirror shimmered. A moment later her image in the compact mirror rippled as if reflecting off troubled water. She closed the compact without noticing and after returning it to her purse, walked across the room to the painting.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" A resonate voice asked.

"I like it," Jane sad turning toward the voice. It's owner was in his late thirties, six feet tall, and had shoulders that would look at home on a lumberjack.

"The plaque outside says everything on display came from a castle in Cromwell, England," he said.

"Thank you. I missed that."

They turned back to the painting. It was a rural scene with the last rays of a setting sun tinting orange as they fanned out over green rolling hills.

"Sunset scenes in the country always make me feel at peace," she said.

Simm nodded. "I agree. That's why I bought my house outside of town, so I can enjoy sunsets like this everyday."

She faced him, dropping the pretext of interest in the painting. "What about the commute?"

He smiled easily. "My business permits me some flexibility in work times. I plan my drive to avoid the worst of the traffic crush." He shrugged. "It's only forty-five minutes one way. The peace and quiet are worth it."

Jane itched to look down and see if he was wearing a wedding ring.

He held out his left hand for her to shake. "My name is Robert Simm."

She took it and noticed that he didn't have a wedding ring and that they were both left-handed. Jane felt the instant bond of meeting a fellow left-handed person in a right-handed world. She smiled. "I'm Jane Moorpark."

They strolled slowly around the room, talking and ignoring the artwork. Within half an hour they'd agreed to have dinner at Julio's, an Italian restaurant they both knew. By eight that evening she'd found out he liked fettucine in clam sauce as much as she did, loved the shade of his blue eyes and the fact that the dimples that showed when he smiled didn't weaken the strength in his face. Jane couldn't fathom his obsession for stereo equipment, but overlooked it because he shared her preference of cats over dogs.

They stretched dinner until the headwaiter made a point of standing near their table so he could glower at them. Simm paid the bill and drove her to her apartment where he insisted on walking her to her door.

"Would you like to come in for a drink?" she asked as she searched her purse for keys. The key ring snagged on a handkerchief and when she pulled it out, the handkerchief dragged the compact out of the purse. It fell, hitting the deep carpeting with a soft thud, and sprang open.

Simm glanced at the mirror as he picked it up for her. He seemed to freeze a moment, blinking several times as he stared at the open compact. She gently took it from his hand and snapped it closed.

Jane freed the keys of the handkerchief and unlocked the door. She turned to thank Simm for the evening and felt her breath catch in her throat.

Desperate hunger burned in Simm's eyes. His hand shot out and grabbed her forearm in a grip that made her gasp. "Bob? What-"

Searing pain choked her words off as he squeezed with crushing pressure. Jane listened in terrified disbelief to a dull, double pop as both bones in her forearm snapped. Pain shot up her arm and she screamed in agony.

Simm pushed his way through the door, jerking on Jane's shattered arm to force her to follow. He kicked the door closed and stalked around the apartment, pulling Jane behind him.

Through the delirium of pain, the new terror that he might be looking for the bedroom churned the nausea in her stomach. One by one, Simm examined each of the exits off the living room. To her momentary relief he passed the bedroom with hardly a glance. He pushed open the swinging door to the kitchen and stopped. Jane collapsed to the floor and craned her neck to look up at him. His teeth showed stark white through a cold smile. Simm hurried forward, dragging her after him. The spring-loaded door scrapped down her legs, tearing at her nylons. Her feet slipped over the threshold and the door swung closed.

Fifteenth DC Police Precinct
Thursday, 9:14 P.M.

The muscles in Desk Sergeant Jonas MacPherson's right forearm bulged from his grip on a stubbed pencil. He concentrated on drawing the fourth curved line to connect the corners of a square, making it into a circle. The phone rang, jiggling the tensed arm. The pencil carved a thick black groove into the paper perpendicular to its intended direction.

MacPherson sighed and picked up the phone. "Fifteenth Precinct, how may I help you?"

"You've got to come right away!" an elderly woman's voice shrilled. "There's a woman screaming and-"

MacPherson yawned. "Yes, ma'am. Just calm down and we'll get right on it. Now-"

"But you don't understand! It sounds like she's being killed."

"Yes, ma'am. I understand. If you would please give me the address."

"Oh, yes. Of course. It's in the apartment just above me."

"What's the apartment's name?"

"Cherrywood Arms."

The sergeant scribbled the information on the telephone report form and paused. "Ma'am? The address?"

"Oh, Uh... four-seventeen Crenshaw."

"Nearest cross-street?"

"Filbert. Now hurry! I can hear her. She's still screaming."

MacPherson pressed the receiver harder into his ear trying to pick up any background sounds but the woman's rapid breathing covered anything that might have been audible. "All right," he said. "Now all I need is your name and-" The phone clicked dead on him.

He cradled the receiver without surprise and punched a button on the desk's intercom.

"Dispatch," a tinny voice answered

"Hi, Sam. Mac here."

"Evening, Jonas. How's it goin'?"

"Slow. You got any warm bodies available?"

"Warm bodies? You mean, like real live cops?"

"Whatever you can spare."

"Well, there's Arboles and Williams. If you're not too particular-" The metallic crash of a waste can smashing into a brick wall cut across the dispatcher's voice. "Hey! Watch it."

"You okay, Sam?"

"Yeah. Fine. Great. Some guys got no sense of humor."

"Well, send them over to the Cherrywood Arms Apartments, four-seventeen Crenshaw, near Filbert. Sounds like someone's disturbing an old lady's sleep."

"One of those."

"Right." The desk sergeant's phone rang. "Later, Sam. Got another call."

MacPherson stabbed the flashing button. "Fifteenth Precinct, Sergeant Mac-"

"This is an emergency," a man's voice stated. "There's a young woman screaming her head off next door to me and you need to stop it. I'm entertaining my fiancee and-"

A shadow crossed MacPherson's brow. "Yes, sir. The address?"

"Four-seventeen Crenshaw."

"Near Filbert?"

"Well, yes. How did you know?"

A second line on MacPherson's board lit up.

"We'll send someone right over, sir."

MacPherson keyed the second line. "Fifteenth Precinct-"

"You've got to help her!" a young man's voice demanded. "She sounds likes she'd being murdered!"

MacPherson sat up straight. "Address?"

"Four-seventeen Cren-"

"Yes, Sir," MacPherson yelled. "We're on it." He slammed the receiver down and smashed a fist on the intercom's dispatch button.

"This is-"

"Sam! Hustle those men out to that Crenshaw address ASAP and tell them to use the sirens. It sounds bad."

Cherrywood Arms Apartments
Thursday, 9:32 P.M.

The policemen arrived at Jane Moorpark's apartment eighteen minutes after MacPherson took the first call. It was ten minutes too late.

Patrolman Jason Arboles followed the sounds of people pounding on someone's door to a second floor apartment. He and his partner, Frank Williams, dispersed the half dozen people and tested the door. It was locked.

"Is this the apartment where the screaming came from?" Arboles asked the people still loitering in the hallway.

"Yes," a stork-thin man said. "It belongs to Jane Moorpark. She stopped screaming a few minutes ago." He swallowed with difficulty. "I know Jane. It was her voice."

"Is the manager here?" Williams asked. No one stepped forward. Arboles collected Williams with a look. "Get set." Williams nodded.

Arboles leaned against the far wall and pushed off, putting all of his two hundred and eight pounds behind a flat-footed kick that struck the door close to the lock. Splintered wood ricocheted into the apartment as the door exploded inward. Williams followed the door in, gun drawn. Arboles went through a split-second later.

Robert Simm lay on the living-room sofa, his eyes half closed in a drunken glaze, a blissfully smile playing across his face. His arms, resting comfortably on his thighs, were covered to their elbows in blood.

Arboles' expression grew taught. "Looks like we've got ourselves a junky who just did someone."

Williams shook his head. "Man, what a mess."

Arboles trained his weapon on Simm and scanned the apartment. "Nothing here. Check around."

Williams started opening doors. "Bathroom: nothing. Bedroom: clear. Den: empty." He pushed through a swinging door. "Kitchen... Oh, God." he turned way, his face drained of color.

Arboles tightened his grip on his gun. "What is it?"

Williams' throat quivered like someone fighting the urge to throw up. "The kitchen. Go... go see for yourself."

Arboles' gaze tracked from Williams, to the kitchen's door and back. He nodded curtly and stepped toward door. His weapon made a metal-on-wood scrapping sound as he used the barrel to push it open. He looked, jerked his eyes away, then forced them back.

Jane Moorpark lay face up on a dinette table in the middle of the small kitchen. Her arms and legs had been broken downward to facilitate tying them the table's legs. Every square inch of her body had been assaulted. Blood-smeared kitchen utensils lay scattered over the white-tiled counters.

As Arboles stepped back into the living room, Simm quivered from head to foot, then sat up straight and looking around the apartment. Williams snapped on a pair of latex gloves and handcuffed Simm's hands behind his back. "What's your name?"

"Wait," Arboles said. "Read him his rights. This is one guy we don't want to get off on a technicality."

Williams drew a stiff card from his shirt pocket and recited Miranda to him. "Do you understand what I've just said to you?"

Simm looked around vaguely. "Yes. Of course."

"Are you willing to answer our questions?"

Simm nodded. "Anything. I just want to know-"

"Without having an attorney present?"

Concern darkened Simm's expression. "Yes, of course. Please tell me-"

Williams hooked his thumbs over his belt. "What is your name?"

"Robert Simm." He looked up at him. "Where am I?"

"Do you know a Miss Jane Moorpark?"

He went rigid. "Yes. We met today and had dinner together. I remember walking her to her door. What's going on?"

"Just answer the questions. What time did you see her last?"

"About eight-thirty, right outside her door. Is this her apartment? How did I get inside? Where is she?"

Arboles' brow knitted as he watched the questioning. Simm acted confused and scared... but not guilty.

"What happened after you said good-bye?" Williams asked.

"After? I don't know. I... can't remember."

Williams gave his partner a cynical look. Arboles shrugged back.

"Has something happened to Jane?" Simm asked. "Where is she?"

Williams raised his eyebrows at Arboles. "Let's show the bastard."

Arboles nodded but pursed his lips, unsure about Simm's reactions. Williams jerked Simm to his feet and thrust him through the kitchen door. "Good Lord," Simm cried. "Who? Jane? Jane! No, please God, no." Simm fell to the floor.

Williams drew back his booted foot to kick Simm. Arboles stopped him. "Don't. He'll get his soon enough."

FBI Headquarters
Assistant Director Walter Skinner's Office
Friday, 8:02 A.M.

Scully looked into Skinner's reception room. Mulder slouched in a black-leather chair while a secretary in a sky blue suit and shoulder-length blonde hair busied herself at a word processor. She ended each sentence with a period and flick of her eyes in Mulder's direction. Mulder concentrated on the morning newspaper, oblivious to the glances. Scully stepped into the office. "Good morning."

Mulder's eyes stayed on the paper. "Uh huh."

"Morning, Dana," the secretary said.

"Hello, Jill. Still filling in for Kimberly?"

She nodded. "Kim's enjoying her assignment in crypto so much she's asked for an extension."

Scully raised an eyebrow. "I see you cut your hair."

Jill touched her hair with a hand. "I thought it was time for a change."

Scully watched Jill's eyes dart in Mulder's direction. He slowly read around the edge of a page. Jill dropped her hands. "It's easier to take care of."

Scully raised her chin a fraction of an inch. "It looks good."

Mulder folded over another page.

"Mulder?" Scully said. "What do you think?"

Jill beamed a smile at him. Mulder looked at Scully. "About what?"

"Jill's hair."

Mulder looked over at Jill as if noticing her for the first time. "Oh, yeah. Nice. What color did it use to be?"

Jill turned back to her monitor and began pounding the keyboard with fingers locked into claw-like hooks.

Mulder's looked back and forth between the two women. "I, uh...."

Scully warned him to silence with a shake of her head.

Jill's intercom buzzed. She stabbed a button. "Yes, Mr. Skinner?"

"Are agents Scully and Mulder here?"

"Yes, sir."

"Send them in."

"Right away." She released the button. "You may go in now."

Mulder stood and stepped through the door to Skinner's office. Scully followed, mouthing sorry at Jill as she passed.

Assistant Director Walter Skinner stood behind his dark mahogany desk with his back to them, intent on the contents of a folder. He waved a hand at them. "I'll be with you in a moment. Please be seated."

Scully lowered herself into one of the two hardwood chairs in front of the desk. Mulder slid into the other one, folded his paper in half, and tucked it between the chair and his leg. Skinner's closed the folder, dropped it on his desk and pulled off a pair of small, wire-rimmed reading glasses that seemed incongruous with his muscular build. "We have a problem with the Gorskey case."

Scully and Mulder exchanged glances.

"Legal's concerned a defense attorney may have a case for entrapment based on the grounds that your investigation of Mr. Gorskey proceeded with insufficient probable cause," Skinner said.

Mulder spread his hands. "Entrapment? How?"

Skinner pointed at him with the glasses. "You arrested him based on the evidence you'd collected implicating him in a counterfeiting ring. Your report doesn't establish probable cause." He taped the report. "We need something more than what's in here. How did you really do it, Mulder?"

Mulder blinked once. "Charities.:

Skinner's brow furrowed.

"Gorskey made a contribution to one charity or another after every betting session. The donations were always in cash and many were too far out of his way to not have a purpose. After two weeks of trailing him I noticed he'd started to repeat the charities and the order he visited them: The Church of the Faithful Follower, The Orphanage of Our Sacred Lady, the Unification Church, Nun's Relief Fund-"

"I get the idea," Skinner said.

"All of these charities were religious organizations. When I looked deeper into Gorskey's background it turned out he'd been raised in a Catholic orphanage. It stood to reason his donations were a form of contrition."

A tired look came into Skinner's eyes. "Agent Mulder, giving to charities doesn't make you guilty of a crime."

Mulder smiled. "It does if it's your confession. Combining the first letters from each charity's name in the order Gorskey visited them spells out the word counterfeit."

Skinner blinked. "No one else saw that."

Mulder shrugged. "I know it's thin but-"

Skinner sat up straighter. "It's weak but it'll work" He handed Mulder the report. "Amend this to include what you just told me. Include a profile on Gorskey that supports your confession theory. Make it good or you may find yourself in court as a defendant instead of a witness."

Mulder took the folder and stood. "Yes, sir."

Scully joined him.

"That's all," Skinner said. He began scribbling notes on a yellow legal pad. Scully and Mulder turned to go.

"Agent Mulder."

"Sir?"

"Don't forget your newspaper."

Mulder retrieved the folded sheets.

They left the office and walked past Jill, still murderously hammering her keyboard. Mulder walked through to the hallway. Scully stopped long enough to whisper something in Jill's ear. The secretary glanced up at her, looked over at the door Mulder had just exited and then back down at her keyboard. After a moment's hesitation she nodded. Scully smiled and left to catch up with Mulder.

She found him in the hallway. "I'll amend the report to include your explanation for suspecting Gorskey."

Mulder nodded. "Okay. I'll work up the profile. Refer to it as Addendum C."

"Right. Let's meet to fit the pieces together in...." She checked her gold watch. "Two hours. That's ten-thirty."

Mulder opened the paper and began to read again. "Sounds good." He turned and began wandering off down the hallway toward the elevator.

"What's so interesting?" Scully called after him.

He kept on walking. "A story about a murder victim named Jane Moorpark."

Fifteenth DC Precinct Courthouse
Two months later

During Simm's trial, the coroner's testimony that Miss Moorpark's torture had been carried out in so expert a manner that she had remained alive a full twenty minutes while enduring unimaginable pain had clinched the prosecution's case for first degree murder with special circumstances. Robert Simm was found guilty and sentenced to life imprisonment without possibility of parole. The judge's sentencing comments included his regret that current laws prohibited him from handing down a death penalty. The public-appointed defense attorney, no lawyer could be found willing to take the case for pay, left Simm's presence immediately after the sentencing and went home to take a bath.

To the end of the trial, Simm claimed no knowledge of committing the crime and could offer no explanation to the indisputable evidence that had identified him as Jane Moorpark's torturer. He was remanded to the custody of the Virginia State Penitentiary.

Jane Moorpark's Apartment
Three weeks later
Wednesday, 11:32 A.M.

"No, Mom," Emma Moorpark said into the telephone. "I didn't make it okay. The drive was a nightmare, bumper to bumper all the way."

A voice buzzed out of the telephone.

"I've no idea what the problem was. Some accident, I suppose. Look, Mom-"

Emma smiled up at the textured ceiling of Jane's apartment.

"Yes, Mom. I'll be sure to wrap your and dad's picture in a towel. I really need to get started so-"

"Yes, Mom."

"Of course, Mom."

"Yes-"

Emma Moorpark quietly placed the receiver on the phone table and ran both hands through long, brown hair that was a perfect match to her dead sister's. She picked up the phone, wedging it between her ear and shoulder so she could examine her fingernails. "What? Yes. Of course I'm listening. No, I won't forget the photo albums... or the mail."

Emma looked down at a crate-sized white plastic box laying on the blue carpeting. The box was filled with white and brown envelopes in assorted sizes. "The post office has been holding her mail since she was... since she died. I picked it up on my way over."

She nodded at the voice on the phone. "Right. I'll give her clothes to Goodwill - You really want the bedding? Okay. Okay. I'll pack it too - Mom, we can't take the furniture. Jane rented the apartment furnished-" Emma's back stiffened. "No, Mom. I'm sorry. I can't go in there."

The telephone voice softened.

Emma's eyes turned toward the kitchen door. Broken streamers of black and yellow crime-scene tape hung down from both sides of the frame. She jerked her head away. "Thanks for understanding, Mom. I know how much the china means to you."

Her eyes brightened. "Wait, I forgot all about the packers. They'll take care of the kitchen."

The voice buzzed at her one last time, softly.

"Sure, I'll be careful driving back. I love you, Mom."

The phone clicked a gentle disconnect at her.

Emma sniffed at the humid mustiness that had built up in the apartment during the months it had been sealed as a crime scene. She tried not thinking about the source of the faint sweet odor lurking beneath the dusty smells and grabbed a flattened cardboard box, folded it into shape, and started packing. She worked her way through the apartment, boxing everything according to her mother's requests. She picked up one last box and returned to Jane's bedroom to pack the few valuables Jane had owned, these Emma planned to personally take back to her home town of Ansera.

She took her parent's picture off the dressing table and dropped it into the box. She hastily snatched it back, wrapped it in a towel and carefully replaced it. Emma ran her eyes over the three boxes in the room, mentally added them to the five in the living room and the two in the den and shook her head. "Jane," she said to the empty apartment. "You were a real pack rat."

Emma hefted up the box she'd take back to Ansera herself and headed for the living room. She halted before she'd taken three steps and put the box down. She pivoted back toward the bed.

On it was a thick, folio-sized envelope the police had given Emma, its stark whiteness a sharp contrast to the dark-blue of the bed's comforter. It contained Jane's personal effects at the time of her death.

Emma's lips tightened as she walked toward it. She stopped at the side of the bed and stared down at the envelope. Just do it quick and it'll be over with.

Emma snatched up the envelope, ripped off the top and up-ended it. A cascade of plastic combs, brushes, make-up and jewelry clattered against themselves as they tumbled onto the bed. She gingerly picked out the few valuables: a watch, two rings, a gold serpentine chain necklace and the red cameo compact Jane had talked Emma into giving her for luck when she moved to DC. Emma ran her thumb over the features of the cameo's face. Their mother had insisted it had been carved in the likeness of their grandmother. She folded her hand, turning the compact back over so the carved profile faced up. Emma tucked a thumbnail under its clasp and began lifting the lid.

Jane Moorpark's Apartment
Wednesday, 12:23 P.M.

Heavy pounding on the apartment's front door jerked her around. The compact fell to the floor. "Just a minute," Emma yelled toward the living room. She scooped the compact up and slipped it into her pocket. Emma walked to the front door and took hold of the handle. Who is it?" she asked through the door.

"Samson Shipping. We're here for a pickup from... " There was a faint rustling of papers. "Emma Moorpark."

She opened the door.

Two men dressed in work-faded coveralls faced her. The older one had a paunch and gray hair and held a clipboard with crumpled yellow invoices jammed under the clip. He nodded and stepped inside. "Morning, miss. I'm Joe Flanders. This... " he stabbed a thumb at a thin man in his twenties. "Is Billy. Dispatch said we're supposed to pick up a shipment from this address. The work order states there's no furniture to move so it should take us... " He spotted the boxes. "Oh, you packed already."

"I hope it's okay. My mother wanted things sorted a certain way, so-"

The older man smiled. "Hey. That's great. Less work for us, ya know. Everything packed up that you want to go?"

"Yes. No. Uh... there's the kitchen. I couldn't... that is I didn't have time-"

"No problem, lady. He nodded at the swinging door. "In there?"

"Yes."

He charged towards the door. The black and yellow crime scene tape drew him up short. He raised an eyebrow at her.

"It was months ago," she said.

He nodded and pushed through the door, sending the yellow tape fluttering. The door swung wildly in and out, flashing vertical slices of brilliant white linoleum blotted with red-brown stains at Emma. A chill passed through her.

The door rocked closed cutting off the view. She ran suddenly cold hands over her arms to rub down goose bumps. Sounds from the mover banging cupboard doors echoed out to her. A minute later he burst back into the living room setting the tape into motion again.

"Billy," he said. "Run down to the truck and get three of the two cubic footers and a china-box. Oh, yeah. Don't forget the packing paper this time."

The boy nodded and hurried out.

Joe turned to her. "It should only take two hours to pack the kitchen and get everything loaded. This is the last pick-up for our truck so it'll be delivered first. You should get it... " He checked the shipping manifest. "Friday afternoon. Saturday morning the latest. Okay?"

"That'll be fine." The postal box caught her eye. "I'll be here going through this mail if you need me."

"Sure thing. By the way, miss. Did you know the floor's a mess in there? Some sort of brown crusty stuff. You're gonna lose your cleaning deposit-"

Emma turned sharply away. "It's okay. I... I just don't have time for it right now."

"Yeah, but we'll track all that stuff across the carpeting."

"Please!" She forced her voice calm. "Please, don't worry about it."

The man shrugged. "Okay. Anything you say."

Billy returned with a stack of flattened cardboard boxes under one arm and a bundle of blank newsprint under the other. She stepped out of the way as he steered between them and into the kitchen. The door flashed another glimpse of the stained linoleum at her. She forced her eyes away.

Emma gathered up the box of mail, the packing box from the bedroom, a pink plastic trash can from the bathroom, settled herself on the sofa and began sorting through Jane's mail. Three piles formed quickly. The largest consisted of advertisements. She made a game out of trying to skim them into a trash can. One out of ten went in. Envelopes that looked like bills made a pile that grew considerably slower than the first. Four letters from Jane's friends who hadn't heard of her death formed the last and smallest pile. Her hands spasmed as she read the return address on the last letter. It was postmarked Virginia State Penitentiary. Her shaking fingers tore a ragged opening in one end.

To the Family of Jane Moorpark,

In the face of the physical evidence, which I can no more refute than explain, I have been forced into the realization that I killed Jane. Please believe me when I say that to this day I have no recollection of what I did that horrible night. The acts I committed were unspeakable and I wish to God that they had never happened. I pray for my memory of that lost hour to be restored so that I can come to terms with what I did. My belief in my guilt is based on an acceptance of the evidence but in my heart I still feel a haunting emptiness. The clean guilt of recollection would be preferable to this pointless sense of waste. My last memories of Jane were of mutual attraction and honest affection. What force could have prevailed on me to do what I did is a complete mystery to me.

The purpose of this letter is to express my regret for what happened to Jane. I cannot ask for your forgiveness or understanding; my crime goes beyond that possibility. I do ask that you accept my belief that after the misery of a lifetime in jail, I am certain to face an even greater damnation.

I have asked my attorney to cancel all applications for appeals and pardons. I have also directed my business attorneys to liquidate all of my assets and turn over the totality of the money collected to the Moorpark family. This is not a gesture to buy forgiveness. It is simply the only thing I can do to make amends. You should receive the check shortly after this letter.

Robert Town Simm

Emma read the letter twice. Then holding it in both hands she twisted it until the sheet tore in half. She let the pieces fall on the floor.

She didn't hate Bob Simm. She hated what he'd done to her sister, but while listening to him on the witness stand, she became convinced he really couldn't remember killing Jane. Simm refused to allow his lawyer to make any motions limiting evidence collected at the scene no matter how damaging. As the trial wore on, he had even volunteered for a series of hypnotic and electric shock treatments in an effort to recover his memory. They hadn't worked. In the end, Emma came to believe the truthfulness of his memory loss. She even pitied him, a little.

Emma searched through the bill pile until she found an envelope from Brubakar and Hatch, Attorneys at Law. Inside, with a brief statement informing the Moorpark family of the reason for the letter, was a check for two hundred and fifty-six thousand dollars. Emma stared at it, then looked around at the few boxes that were all that was left of her sister's life and shook her head. She tossed the check into the box containing Jane's personal belongings, followed it with the bills and personal letters and stood up.

She stepped over to the kitchen door and reached out to knock on it, but her hand froze an inch away. Emma dropped the arm. "Excuse me?" she called out.

"Yeah?" Joe's voice came back through the rustling of paper.

"I need to go out for a while. Is everything okay?"

"Sure. No problems."

"I'll be back about two this afternoon." She backed away from the door.

Emma carried the box she'd packed down to her silver Mustang, dusty from the long drive from Ansera. Leaning against the car's side, she hefted the box through the open passenger window. Jane's compact cut into her leg. She slipped it out of her pocket; the cameo's whiteness burned brilliant in the sun. Emma repeatedly turned it over in her hand, staring at it until a red Miada beeped at her to pull out so it could have her parking-spot. She pushed the compact between the dry cardboard of the box's flaps until it fell in with a dull plop. Emma got in her car and drove off.

Two hours later Emma had eaten lunch at a Michael's Fish & Chips franchise, cleared with Jane's apartment manager and spent the rest of the time canceling utilities. As she walked down the hall to Jane's door, Emma sighed as she paged through the receipts she'd collected. It had only taken an hour to cut all the umbilical cords that had connected Jane to the rest of the world. Now, except for a few pictures and memories, it was as if her sister had never existed.

The door to the apartment swung open as Emma stepped up to it. Billy backed out wheeling a dolly loaded with boxes. They nearly collided. The youth nodded at her briefly. "Sorry," and hurried down the hall.

She stepped through the door. Joe was just walking into the living room from the bedroom with two boxes in his arms. "Afternoon," he said and placed them on top of the only other box left in the room. "These are the last three. We're almost done but before we go I need you to sign the shipping invoice.

"Of course."

He picked the clipboard up off of the arm of the sofa. "Seventeen boxes total." He scratched a blue X in front of a line at the bottom of the page and handed the board to her. Emma signed and handed it back. Billy returned and carted the last three boxes away. Joe nodded at her one last time and followed him out. She looked around at the apartment. Stripped of Jane's effects, it had become lifeless. Emma turned to leave and felt her stomach jump.

A trail of red-brown footprints led from the kitchen to the front door. She gulped, and being careful not to step on the darkened path, left Jane's apartment.

Emma fought her way through city traffic and eventually made it to Highway 95 heading south. Forty minutes later she turned onto the 64 going west and was able to enjoy the view of the the sun glittering off the James River, in spite of the day's business.

Half-an-hour later, a green-and-silver sign flashed by announcing the turnoff for Ansera. Emma smiled and changed lanes for the off-ramp.

Ansera, Virginia
Wednesday, 4:32 P.M.

Emma turned left into the red brick driveway of her parent's house. Worn concrete steps and a porch fronted the white, two-story, clapboarded house. Emma climbed out of her car, stiff from the drive, and looked up as the front door creaked open. Mary Moorpark stood framed in it and beamed a smile at her daughter. She wore a full-length white apron and loose-fitting yellow dress that hid some of her plumpness.

Emma smiled back. She had no doubt that her mother had been standing by the door for the past hour waiting for her arrival. Like both her daughters, Mary Moorpark possessed a long mane of lustrous brown hair.

"Hi, Mom."

"I was getting worried."

Emma walked around to the passenger's side of her car to get the box of Jane's effects. Mary Moorpark's smile faded as she carried it into view. "That's all?"

"Yes. Well, after all, she only lived in DC a year."

Mary pushed the door open for her daughter. Emma stepped over the threshold, dropped the box on a coffee table, and collapsed onto the sofa. "Home at last." She caught the warm aroma of fresh coffee. "Could I have a cup?"

Mrs. Moorpark nodded and got her a steaming mug from the kitchen. Emma took a sip as she looked around the living room. "Where's Dad?"

"Out back weeding the garden," Mary Moorpark said as she stared at the box.

"Should we wait-"

"No," her mother said. "He's still having a hard time facing it. He'll come around, eventually."

Emma folded back the flaps on top of the box. Her mother leaned close and dipped a hand into the box. It came out holding a pink-handled brush with stiff black bristles. Mary Moorpark put her free hand to her mouth. "Oh, God. I gave this to her when she was just a little girl."

Emma placed a hand on her arm. "We don't have to do this now."

Mary took her daughter's hand in a desperate grip. "Yes, we do. I do."

Unpacking slowly, they took turns handling each item as it came out of the box. The three Moorpark women had always been close. Now there were just two of them and a small box of mementos. Emma handed her mother Simm's check. Mary looked at it with an empty face. "That's a lot of money."

"Mom?"

She dropped the check on the coffee table and covered her eyes with her hands. Emma patted her shoulder, then lifted the picture frame out of the box and forced it into her mother's hands. Mary unwrapped it. "Your father and I gave this to her when she left. We never thought-"

"Come on, Mom. We're almost done."

They sorted through the remaining few items in the box. The compact came out last.

Mary rubbed a thumb over the cameo's face and handed it to her daughter. "Your grandmother was so proud to give to you girls." Emma took it and nodded. She slipped a thumbnail into the split between the two halves and pushed. It sprang open. She touched the gray satin back of the powder puff and wistfully recalled all the times she and Jane had stolen makeup from each other. She looked up into the mirror, and saw it ripple. Her expression went blank.

"Emma, what's the matter?"

Her eyes had a feverish glisten. "It's nothing. Just a chill." Her voice was distant.

Mary Moorpark took the compact, snapped it closed and dropped it in her apron pocket. "I can't take this any more. Be a dear and put Jane's things away? I'm going to the store. Maybe doing something will help get my mind off Jane." Her voice broke as she spoke her daughter's name.

Mary Moorpark stood rigidly and left, pausing only long enough to snatch her purse off an end table. She called back as she hurried through the door. "You better go tell your father you're here or his feelings will be hurt. I'll be back in half an hour."

+++

Mary departed so quickly she left the front door open. She climbed into the blue Honda Civic in front of the house and drove off. She worked her way methodically across town towards Stan's Market. Mary still preferred Stan's small store to the new supermarket that attracted Ansera's younger wives. Right now she needed the special attention Stan always lavished on his long-time customers. "Chicken," she said as she turned onto Pillsbury Street where Stan had his store. "I'll get a chicken for dinner."

Half a block short of Stan's market, she braked for a stoplight. She checked herself in the rear-view mirror and spotted the white shoulder straps of her apron. "Lord. I'll be forgetting my head next." She shrugged out of the apron. As she did, the compact fell to the floor. Mary picked it up, automatically opening it to check her makeup. She squinted as her image seemed to shimmer. Vibration from the motor, probably.

Suddenly realizing she was using Jane's compact she hastily placed the open compact on the dashboard. The mirror fell over cockeyed and caught the image of the side mirror on Sam Barlow's truck parked in a driveway immediately to her right. The mirrors traded shimmers.

Mary jumped at the sound of a horn blaring behind her. The light had turned green.

Shaking herself, she slowly accelerated into the intersection. Mary Moorpark blinked several times. The street ahead of her seemed to pull away, as if everything was stretching outward in all directions. Mary felt her attention focus inward, separating her from the rest of the world.

Off to her right, Johnny Waverly sat on the curb wrestling the trainer wheels off of his red bicycle. Mary smiled and pulled hard right on the steering wheel.

Ansera Police Station
Wednesday, 5:43 P.M.

Police Chief Matthew Dill sat behind his desk, pondering which was more painful: enduring boredom or having work piled up to his ears. Deputy Jeff Daniels burst through his door. "Chief, you're not going to believe who I just arrested."

Dill gave Ansera's youngest patrolman a wry smile. "Let's see, last time you got this excited was when you caught three kids jaywalking. The time before that it was old-man Pips failing to signal before turning out of his driveway."

Daniels flapped his hands at his sides. The motion and his tall, skinny physique made him like an exited stork. "No. No. This is big. Really big."

Dill sat up straighter, fighting to keep laughter out of his voice. "Well then, the most likely candidates would be one of our resident drunks or that troublemaker Bill Valentine." The sheriff spread his hands. "I give up. Who'd you get?"

"Mrs. Moorpark!"

Dill chuckled. "Mary Moorpark? What'd she do? Drive forty-six in a forty-five mile-per-hour zone?"

"She murdered Bo Waverly's son."

Dill's smile crashed. "Tell me."

Daniels ran shaky fingers through his wavy black hair. "Johnny Waverly was sitting on the curb near Stan's doing something to his bike. Mrs. Moorpark deliberately ran him down."

The sheriff shook his head. "It had to be an accident or some kind of mechanical failure. Mary's one of the town's most revered citizens. She couldn't do anything like that on purpose."

Daniels turned pale. "Cynthia Bain, Curt Samuelson and Stan all saw her aim for the kid then repeatedly reverse and drive over him." The deputy swallowed.

"There's more. Spit it out." Dill said.

Daniels wiped the cuff of his shirt across his narrow brow. It came away wet. "The witnesses were close enough to see her expression. They all said she was laughing as she did it."

Dill's lips drew tight. "What did she do then?"

"Parked at Stan's and just sat in her car, smiling as if she hadn't a care in the world."

"Where is she now?"

Daniels jerked his head toward the door. "Sitting in the front of the station, asking what all the excitement's about."

The sheriff's pointed at pencil at Daniels. "All right. Go call Doc Reilly and have him get over here. He doesn't know Mary but he's the only shrink in town. Tell him to bring his inkblots or whatever. I want her mental state evaluated. Get formal statements from all the witnesses. And I mean now! I want them before the Doc gets here so he knows what's going on. Then get over to the Moorpark house and tell anyone who's there what happened. Warn them they'd better get a lawyer."

"Right, chief," Daniels said. He spun toward the door.

"And Jeff. Tell the desk sergeant to read Mary her rights and book her."

Daniels nodded and left.

Matthew Dill cradled his head in his hands and decided that being bored was better.

+++

It took Daniels an hour to contact Doctor Reilly and get the witness statements down on paper. His head was spinning by the time he found himself ringing the doorbell to the Moorpark's home. No one answered. He rang again, wondering if anyone was in the backyard. The front door stood wide open. He squinted through the screen door. All he could make out in the semi-dark living room were furniture-shaped shadows. Daniels turned to look around back when a woman's ecstatic moan stopped him.

He smiled, wondering if Emma was with Jed Parkington, her current boyfriend. Daniels checked his watch and frowned. Her father should be home from work this late in the day. Daniels leaned close to the screen that it rasped against his forehead. "Miss Moorpark?"

"Yes?" a lilting woman's voice answered.

"Miss Moorpark, it's patrolman Daniels. I need to talk to you. I'm afraid there's some bad news." He thought Emma's voice was coming from the right, just out of sight from the doorway.

"Come in."

Daniels stepped through the door and looked right. Emma Moorpark stood by the living room's stone fireplace, her hands held demurely behind her.

"Miss Moorpark, Sheriff Dill asked me to inform you that your mother is at the station. He thinks you'll need to get a lawyer." Daniels swallowed, and looked down to avoid her eyes. His brows came together as he noticed a trail of dark, wet foot-shaped stains leading from Emma back to the door that led to the kitchen. A soft, wet spat filled the silence of the room. Daniels looked back towards Emma. Another spat drew his attention down to the carpeting. A third drop of thick, dark liquid fell behind her and landed in a slowly growing circle. She smiled coldly and took a step forward. Daniels backed away. Without warning Emma Moorpark launched herself at him, something long glittered in her out-thrust hand. Daniels' revolver jumped into his hand and exploded. A bullet slammed into Emma's shoulder, spinning her in mid-air. She crashed to the floor.

Daniels looked down, wide-eyed at his weapon. The acidic smoke from of its discharge tingled his nostrils. He shook himself and stepped over to Emma, kicking a long carving knife out of reach. Blind fury blazed out of her eyes. As he bent to inspect her wound, her good arm slashed at his eyes. Claw-like fingers scored his temple. He jerked backward and gritted his teeth against the pain. "If that's the way you want it."

He jumped forward and flopped her over onto her stomach. With a knee pressed into the small of her back, he twisted her wrists around and handcuffed them. She writhed under him like a snake. Daniels pushed himself off. Emma seemed to collapse in on herself and lay quiet. He humphed and began following the trail of footprints. They disappeared under the door. He pushed it open, looked inside and scrambled backwards. The door swung closed on a nightmare.

Daniels eased himself into a chair and used the phone on the stand next to it to dial the station's number.

"Ansera Police Station. This is Sergeant Chamber. How may I help you?"

"Ron, it's Daniels. Tell the chief to send some men and an ambulance over to the Moorpark house right away."

"What's up, Jeff?"

Perspiration burned into the slash marks on his temple. Daniels wiped at the wetness but it only sharpened the sting. "I had to shoot Emma Moorpark and her father's been... well, sort of killed."

Chamber's voice yelled out of the phone at him. "What do you mean you had to shoot her? And what is 'sort of killed' supposed to mean?"

"She came at me with a knife. It happened so fast that I fired off a round before I knew what happened. I cuffed her then followed her bloody footprints to the kitchen and found Julius Moorpark on the floor. Ron, he's been cut to ribbons!"

"You think Emma did it?"

"With the same knife she tried using on me."

"You sit tight. I'm sending over a squad car with Phil and Mark. They'll secure the area. I'll have Sharon accompany them to keep an eye on Emma. The hospital's closer than we are so the ambulance will probably beat them there."

"Right." Daniels hung up and buried his face in trembling hands.

+++

Sergeant Chamber hung up and quickly dispatched the police and ambulance units, then reported to Dill.

"What's going on with that family?" Dill said.

Chamber shrugged.

"Who's left on duty?" Dill asked.

"You and me, sir. Do you want me to call in some extra people? Veen is away on vacation but Brophy and Cartier are available."

Dill nodded. "Better call them in. We've had more homicides in two hours than in the last year. God knows what's next."

Chamber shook his head and left. Dill pulled out a pad of scheduling forms and began scribbling. Five crumpled pages later he gave up and threw the forms into the trash. No matter how he juggled his people he didn't have enough personnel to maintain patrols and investigate two murders. He ran stiff fingers through his sandy-gray hair. "What a combination: low staffing and a pair of murders." Dill's eyes rounded. "Pair?"

Chamber stuck his head in the door. "You called, Chief?"

Dill grinned. "Not a pair, damn it. A series!"

"Sir?"

Dill jabbed a finger at him. "Bring me a blank 2342 form and make sure the fax machine is heated up. I know how to get out of this mess."

FBI Headquarters
Wednesday, 7:42 P.M.

One hour after Chamber handed Dill the blank form, fax machine number thirteen in a room filled with them slowly peeled off a copy of the 2342. The room was the FBI's central receiving point for electronic mail. Over the next nine hours, Dill's 2342 was coded, shuffled into a stack of similar forms, lost, found, and finally forwarded to the office of Assistant Director Walter Skinner. It was the last item sent to Skinner's office so it was on the top of his in-box when he arrived for work at seven-thirty that morning.

AD Walter Skinner stormed through his anteroom. "Morning, Jill."

She smiled at him. "Good morning, sir. Night staff was busy last night. I'm afraid your in-basket's already full."

"When isn't it?" He hurried through to his office. In a single efficient movement he shucked his dark-blue suit coat with his left hand while his right snatched the top document from his in-box. He threw the coat around the back of his chair and thumbed the fax cover-sheet off Dill's 2342. Skinner had skimmed half-way through the fax before he'd settled himself in his chair. He scowled and stabbed an intercom button. "Jill, what's our man-hour overload rating?"

"As of last Monday, eighteen percent."

"Are any other directorates lower?"

He heard paper rustle as Jill shuffled through her ready-reference files.

"No, sir. All the other directors are claiming over twenty percent."

His frown deepened. "Even Barksdale?"

"Twenty-six percent."

"Damn. I was hoping to push this off on someone."

"Sir?"

"It's nothing. Forget it." He clicked off.

Skinner stared at the paperwork in his hands. I don't have enough agents for support requests. His eyebrows lifted. Except...

He punched the intercom again. "Jill, please have Agents Scully and Mulder report to me as soon as they sign in."

"Yes, sir."

Skinner had worked his way through half of his in-basket's contents when his intercom buzzed. "Yes?"

"Agents Scully and Mulder are here, sir."

"Send them in."

He picked up Dill's fax as Scully and Mulder stepped through the door and walked to the front of his desk. He ran a supervisory eye over them. Scully wore a black blazer over a shimmering, emerald green silk blouse. Her page-boy cut auburn hair seemed lighter this morning, almost red. Skinner couldn't spot a single hair out of place. Mulder had on a dark-gray, two-piece suit and white shirt. His tie sported a blue-on-gold, paisley design. His brown hair was tousled, like he'd fingered it in place instead of using a comb. Skinner doubled-tracked over Scully's brilliant green blouse and Mulder's tie. "Pushing the dress codes a little this morning, aren't you?"

Scully stiffened. Mulder smiled and shrugged.

Skinner extended the fax to Scully. She took it with the small, delicate fingers of her right hand. Skinner reminded himself that those fragile-looking fingers had earned her third place in last month's handgun qualification firings. He cleared his throat. "That's a Form 2342, Request for FBI Assistance Relating to Serial Murders. It was submitted last night by the chief of police of Ansera, a small town about ninety miles east of DC. I'm assigning you to look into it. It's my estimation the local police are just looking for some free manpower so spend as little time as possible on it but make the locals feel they're getting their tax dollar's worth. I'll expect you back in two days. That's all." Skinner picked up a fresh piece of paperwork and began reading.

Mulder stood fast. "Sir?"

The assistant director looked up. "What is it, Agent Mulder?"

"This case isn't an X-file. I was hoping to-"

"Correct me if I'm wrong, Agent Mulder, but to the best of my memory you aren't currently assigned to any other cases."

"No. But I've received a report of-"

Skinner's eyes hardened. "What is it this time, Agent Mulder? Aliens? Bigfoot?"

"Actually-"

"I don't want to hear about it. Your work on cases involving the paranormal is excellent. I don't always agree with your explanations but there is no denying that your effectiveness in solving such cases is greater than anyone else's in the bureau's history. You'll be the first person called the next time someone reports a federal crime associated with unknown phenomena. Until then, there are two dead people in Ansera. We owe it to them to find their killers. Do you have a problem with that?"

Scully stepped forward. "No, sir. We don't."

She turned to her partner. "Let's go, Mulder. We have work to do."