INTUITION
By MeridyM
meridym@home.com
Distribution: Just let me know where.
Disclaimer: Nope, not mine, except the obvious.
Rating: A strong R for violence, language, and sexuality.
Classification: Case file; Scully, Doggett.
Summary: On a ritual murder case in the Rocky Mountains, things
get personal for Doggett.
Feedback: Would be wonderful.
This is for the DogGoddesses. You know who you are.
Author's notes at end.
The banks of candles around the small room flickered and smoked,
lighting the area with surreal golden light-and-shadow. The
white-robed crowd moved rhythmically to the insistent beating of
drums. But above the sound of the drumming were the keening moans
of the woman on the floor before the banks of candles. Blood shone
slick on her torso as she struggled with the four white robes
holding her down. A tall figure in a hooded robe stepped out of
the shadows, looked down at the woman, and knelt down between her
legs. He pushed the hood back, and she screamed. And screamed.
* * *
Thursday Morning
Dana Scully was sitting at Mulder's desk, staring down at the
files spread open in front of her. She chewed on her lip and
found herself reading the same paragraph over and over again. Her
eyes were drawn back to the photo of the woman. It gave her
chills. Nude, the woman's body was spread-eagled on the ground.
There were symbols painted on her face, chest and legs in what
looked like red and brown paint. Spirals, too much like crimson
snakes, were drawn around each of the woman's breasts in the
same red. The text explained that the brown "paint" was mud, and
that the red was in fact blood--the woman's own. She was
emphatically dead.
* * *
"Her name was Patricia DeLanza, and she had been missing,
presumably kidnapped, for over a week when she was found yesterday
in the hills of Left Hand Canyon near Boulder, Colorado." Scully
passed the file over to Doggett, who whistled as he looked at the
photo. "She was the second woman to turn up missing in as many
weeks, but so far she's the only one to reappear."
Doggett was reading, sipping his coffee.
"She was raped, and the symbols were drawn on her skin with her
own blood," Scully added.
At that, Doggett looked up, wincing. "Any idea about motive,
intent?"
"The local police haven't turned up much yet, aside from the
obvious--the woman was abducted, tied up, raped, stabbed. And she
died."
"What's the X-File here?" Doggett asked. "It's a ritualistic
killing from the looks of it, but I saw a few of those when I was
a cop. Creepy as hell but most always the work of a plain old
garden-variety psycho."
"Well, I'm pretty sure there are some psychos at work here, too,
but there's more to it," Scully replied, pointing to a section
farther down the page Doggett was scanning. "The women who were
abducted worked at the same place--and here's where the X-File
comes in. All the women who work there are energy medicine
healers."
"*Energy* healers." Doggett looked at her, the unspoken "huh?"
hanging in the air between them.
"It's the closest thing that ties any kind of motive to the case.
It can't be coincidental that both of these women just happen to
do this kind of intuitive healing work, and at the same center.
*And* the Boulder police think these crimes might have a tie to a
case from about a year ago that they were never able to solve.
Another woman--another energy healer--turned up missing then, and
they never have found her."
Doggett nodded, not willing to say a whole lot just yet.
Scully held his gaze with her own, blue eyes to blue eyes. "The
missing women are all well known in the community as healers." She
flipped a page of the file over. "And here is the most interesting
part: The woman who owns the center where the victims work--the
one of the group with, allegedly, the strongest intuitive powers--
is the only one who hasn't been. . .well, taken." Scully raised
her eyebrow as punctuation.
"That her?" Doggett nodded at the picture clipped to the page
Scully was pushing his way. He examined the photo, his eyes
narrowing. The woman in the picture had the most direct
eyes he had ever seen, and they had a wicked glint in them, like
she knew just what you were thinking and would love to tell you.
"Yes." Scully watched him closely. "Morgan Dannah. The odd thing
is that this woman has an unimpeachable reputation as one of the
strongest energy healers in the area--if not the whole Western
U.S. She should be able to help us puzzle some of this out."
"Seems like maybe one of the first things we need to puzzle out is
why she wasn't taken too," Doggett put in.
"Maybe she's suspect?" Scully said.
"Or maybe whoever took the other women just hasn't gotten around
to her yet," he suggested grimly.
* * *
Thursday Afternoon
"Was that airport in Kansas?" Scully finally asked, irritated.
"How long have we been driving? It's been an hour, hasn't it?"
At the wheel of the rented sedan driving northwest on US highway
36, Doggett was unfazed. "Not quite. You just need to take the
time to enjoy the scenery."
Scully shot him a drop-dead glance, and picked up the Colorado map
again. "Those must be the Flat Irons," she finally spoke up
grudgingly, and Doggett smiled one of his rare smiles. The
foothills rose up abruptly out of the storied fruited plains. They
were a rich brown, shadowed with trapezoids of deeper, almost
black-brown. They were friendly peaks, unmistakable Front Range
landmarks.
They drove on into Boulder, a picturesque foothills college town
that was slowly being surrounded by urban sprawl, and found the
police station.
"Who we lookin' for?" Doggett asked as they walked through the
doors and up to the desk.
"I spoke to Lieutenant Eilers this morning," Scully replied.
Doggett held his ID up so the desk sergeant could read it. "I'm
Agent Doggett, and this is Agent Scully. We're here to talk to
Lieutenant Eilers."
Scully always noticed the subtle change in Doggett when they were
at a police station or around police officers. It must be the way
I feel when I'm at a hospital, she thought: Comfortable, with a
familiar language and point of view. They followed the sergeant
back to Eilers' office.
"Agent Scully, Agent Doggett? Jim Eilers. Boy, we're glad you
could come so quickly. This case is one crazy deal." He gestured
absently to two chairs, and Scully and Doggett sat.
"Lieutenant Eilers, do you know anything more than we discussed
this morning? Is there anyone else we need to interview?" Scully
spoke up.
"Well, we talked about Morgan Dannah. We think she's going to be
one of the most important people for you to talk to. Her
assistant, Marian. The victims' families. There were no
witnesses to anything--the original abductions, the actual crime,
the return of the body. And there were no signs of struggle--no
violence of any kind. Both women just walked out of their houses
and never came back."
"Do we have forensics yet? Hair, blood, fiber, anything?" Doggett
asked.
"Yeah, and that's an interesting one. The mud on the victim's
body contained small bits of lichen that only grow at altitude--
higher than Boulder, anyway, even higher than the canyon she was
found in. It narrows the search area some, because Indian Peaks
is about the only spot within a reasonable radius that grows that
particular lichen." He shuffled through some reports. "And,
something new: The blood on the victim was mostly hers, but there
were a few small areas of blood of a different type."
"I was wondering if I could inspect the body," Scully put in.
"Oh, yes, sure, Agent Scully. We were expecting it."
"Well, then," Doggett stood up. "Maybe that's where we should head
next."
The lieutenant handed Doggett the file he'd been reading from.
"This should give you all the info you need for now. I'm sure
you'll want to go over to Ms. Dannah's Center over on Walnut--
that's where she'll be. She's handling this pretty well, all
things considered. But I think she's pretty scared."
No kidding, Scully thought. But she said nothing.
"Pat DeLanza and Jill Bussey--the woman who's still missing--
worked with Morgan Dannah for quite a few years, and I think they
were all pretty close," the lieutenant added.
"Has there been any thought given to providing her protection?
You gotta be thinking she's next on the list," Doggett asked.
"Yeah, we asked her about that, and she just flat-out refused,"
Eilers replied.
"And you didn't insist." Doggett said. It wasn't a question.
Scully gave him a sidelong glance.
Before the Lieutenant could reply, Scully extended her hand to
Eilers, who shook it. "Well, we'll be in touch, Lieutenant."
"Yeah. Thanks for your time," Doggett added as they headed for the
office door.
"Don't hesitate to call if you need anything," Eilers called after
them.
"Oh, and *that* gives me confidence," Doggett muttered as they
left the station.
* * *
Doggett pushed open the swinging doors to the autopsy bay. Scully
was dressed in scrubs and latex, bent over the body on the table.
She was carefully scraping some tissue from the eye area of the
victim. The area was blue-black and burned. The dead woman's eyes
were gone.
"Any news?" Doggett asked, as he walked over to her.
She straightened up, pressing her free hand into the small of her
back for a moment. She transferred the sample onto a slide. "Yes,
actually," she replied. "You remember the Lieutenant mentioned
that there was blood on the body of a type different from the
victim's?"
"Yeah," Doggett nodded, intent.
"Well, I did some tests on it, and not only is it a different
type, but there are some unusual characteristics about the blood
itself."
Doggett waited for the other shoe to drop.
"The hemoglobin and hematocrit are sky high--I don't think I've
ever seen readings like this. With erythrocytosis, you'd normally
look at polycythemia vera, high altitude--"
"The Lieutenant mentioned a high-altitude connection," Doggett put
in.
"Yeah, but this is extreme. Altitude alone couldn't do this. And
there wasn't enough blood to do a LAP score to rule out fever or
inflammation." She looked at him. "There's something important
about this, but I just don't know what it is. Yet." She opened a
file, and he read over her shoulder. "This is the autopsy
report." She pointed to a paragraph. "Tissue samples from five
different spots on her body--they all show basic cellular and
neurologic disruption. No one knows how it happened. And this is
strange too--" She flipped the page. "The endometrium of her
uterus was abnormally thick, and her ovaries contained dozens and
dozens of follicular cysts, but there are no other stigmata of
ovarian hyperstimulation syndrome or polycystic ovary syndrome. No
trace of any drugs in her system, like fertility drugs, that could
produce such a thing."
"And the burns on her face--any clues about that?" Doggett asked,
bending over the body to get a closer look. "And, God Almighty,
Agent Scully, what happened to her eyes?"
Scully shook her head.
"This is gonna sound weird, but you know what the common themes
are here?" Doggett asked her. "Sex. And heat."
* * *
"Boulder Center for Energy Medicine" read the fading wooden sign
in front of the Victorian house, as Scully and Doggett pulled up
in front of it. Doggett peered through the windshield at the sign.
He turned to Scully, whose hand was on the door handle.
"Agent Scully."
She turned to him.
"I just want to say this up front right now, before we go in
there. I don't have any experience with any of this stuff, and I
don't put much stock in it, but I get the feeling that maybe you
do."
Scully smiled, but Doggett felt the sadness that he so often felt
from her. It was subtle, but much of the time it instilled her
very atmosphere. He could almost feel her considering what she
should say. He waited for her to speak, to say whatever she was
going to say. He had grown to care about her--maybe a little too
much, if he were honest about it--and to know at least a little of
what motivated her. He had gotten better at waiting.
"Agent Doggett, my sister was part of the New Age movement, or
whatever you want to call it. I thought for the longest time that
it was all nonsense. But a few things have happened over the
years that I just can't deny."
"Like the X-Files," Doggett put in.
Scully nodded. "That, and. . .other things. Agent Doggett, I've
just seen too many things to be able to say that none of this
stuff is real. Some of it is. That's just the truth."
Doggett wasn't completely convinced, but he nodded his head just a
little. "Then I guess we'd better go find out what's real here."
They walked into the Center. The anteroom was full of plants and
sunlight, colorful paintings, and stones in handmade bowls.
Scully sighed. It felt good here.
"Can I help you?" A gray-haired woman walked toward them.
"We're here to speak to Morgan Dannah," Scully held out her ID.
"I'm Agent Scully, and this is Agent Doggett."
"Mo's with a client just now, but she should be available in just
a few minutes. I'll tell her you're here." The woman smiled a
little nervously and disappeared into the back of the office.
Scully walked over to the water dispenser and got a cup, drinking
it gratefully. She looked around. The atmosphere of the place
reminded her of Melissa, and she felt a sudden and unexpected rush
of nostalgia and sadness that brought stinging tears to her eyes.
Just then a door down the hall from them opened, and a woman
walked out. It was the woman in the file picture, escorting her
client. Their voices were low as they exchanged a few words, a
laugh.
The woman looked over at them. She was about Scully's age,
taller, slim, with tousled short black hair in loose curls. If
anything, her eyes were more arresting in person, wide,
intelligent, friendly and rock-crystal green. She wore a long
knit skirt, a cropped sweater the color of her eyes, and wool
socks with clogs. Scully smiled a little to herself. It wasn't a
look you saw in D.C.
"I'm Agent Scully, and this is Agent Doggett." Scully held up her
ID. "Could we ask you a few questions?"
"Of course." Her voice had a familiar Southern lilt, and Doggett
looked at her sharply. Carolina? Georgia?
The woman shook each agent's hand in turn and looked from Scully
to Doggett with a gently appraising expression. "I'm Morgan
Dannah--people call me Mo, and that's fine as long as I don't hear
anythin' about Larry and Curly." Scully smiled almost despite
herself, and Doggett caught himself staring at Mo Dannah. She met
his eyes and slowly smiled.
"Why don't you both come on back to my apartment. I'm through
here for the day. It'll be a lot more private back there." She
gestured for them to follow. "Marian, I'll be home if you need
me," she called out to her assistant.
"Welcome to the People's Republic of Boulder," she added as she
led the two agents through the back of the office and through a
door. They entered a small, cluttered kitchen, and she led them
on into a dining room and then a living room.
"The People's Republic of Boulder?" Doggett gave her a quizzical
look.
"That's just accordin' to some people, most of whom don't live
here," she said. "Boulder's a little. . .different," she added.
Okay, Doggett thought.
Scully looked around. The house was a trove of plants, paintings,
knickknacks, books, crystals, musical instruments on the walls,
comfortable furniture, and soft rugs. It was a seductive place.
"We can sit at the table if you like," Mo said, rousing Scully out
of her reverie. "Let me take your coats. I'll make some coffee
and tea. Then we'll talk." She took the agents' heavy coats, hung
them on the coat tree in the corner, and went back to the kitchen.
Scully had noticed the blue shadows under the other woman's eyes,
and wondered how long it had been since she'd slept. She sat down
at the table.
Doggett chose to walk around the house, taking in the details.
Pretty much what he would have expected, lots of normal stuff,
lots of weird stuff. The Denver Broncos coffee mug on the coffee
table--now, *that* he wouldn't have figured on. Then he stopped
at a cloth-draped table in a corner of the living room. He picked
up some small, flat tiles from the table and turned them over in
his fingers.
"Agent Scully, you might want to see this," he called to her over
his shoulder.
She went over to him. "What? Did you find something?"
Doggett held up one of the tiles. "Isn't this one of the symbols
that was drawn on the DeLanza woman's body?"
Scully examined the tile in question. He was right. He slipped
it into his pocket and walked with Scully back to the dining room
table.
Mo Dannah was at the table waiting for them. There was coffee and
tea on the table and three mugs. The agents helped themselves.
Mo sat still, watching them. She pushed a lock of dark hair
behind one ear, and Scully saw the small silver ring there, at the
top of her ear.
"Ms. Dannah," Scully said, "we need to talk to you about Patricia
DeLanza and Jill Bussey. "It's probably the best chance we have to
find out what happened to Ms. DeLanza, and to try to find Ms.
Bussey."
Mo glanced at Doggett and focused on Scully. "All right. What do
you need to know? I'll give you whatever help I can."
"Well, first, could you tell us what this is?" Doggett slid the
tile from his pocket over to Mo, who picked it up.
Mo looked at it, turned it over in her fingers once, twice. "It's
a rune, Agent Doggett," she replied. "Used for divination. It's
Norse. This symbol has to do with sexual energy, the energy of
the second chakra."
"The second chakra," Doggett repeated.
She got up and went over to a bookcase. She searched for a moment
and then pulled out a well-used book, flipped through it and found
the page she wanted. "Here." She handed the book to Doggett.
" 'Chakra' means 'wheel' in Sanskrit--they're centers of energy,"
she explained. "There are seven in the human being. The second
chakra is the seat of sexual energy, sensuality and creativity,
primordial emotion." She leaned over to Doggett and pointed to a
symbol. "That's the symbol for the second chakra."
Doggett's eyes narrowed as he examined the symbol. He pushed the
book over to Scully. "That look familiar to you?" he asked her.
"It was also painted on Patricia DeLanza's body," Scully replied.
"I've seen the photo," Mo said quietly.
"Ms. Dannah," Doggett spoke to her gently. "We're gonna have to
ask you some hard things about this photo of your friend."
"She was my best friend and partner for 12 years." She closed her
eyes. When she opened her eyes again they were bright with tears.
"I'm sorry. I'm just tired." She turned again to Doggett, who
was watching her. "What do you need to know, Agent Doggett?"
"Well, you obviously know a whole lot more about these symbols and
such than we do, and than the police do--"
"The police don't particularly care what I think," Mo put in. "I
told them about the symbols when I first saw the photo. They just
looked at me like I was a loony." Doggett and Scully saw her eyes
go steely. "I'm a lot of things, but loony isn't one of 'em."
Doggett wondered if that were true. "Let me ask you about this
symbol, here." He pointed to the blow-up of the photo of the
victim.
Mo looked at it closely, tracing the symbol with her fingertip.
She raised her head and met his eyes. "I'd almost have to look it
up, but I think it's a symbol used in the Enochiana--cabalistic
teachings blended with sex magick back in the early 20th century
by Aleister Crowley."
Scully looked at Mo. "Sex magic?"
"Any magic ritual that uses sex to raise and focus power of any
sort," Mo explained. "Crowley was simply applying that ancient
practice to the Qabalah and the Enochian mysteries. . .and you
really don't need to know all about those. Crowley's always kind
of given me the creeps, but he never advocated murder."
Doggett leaned back in his chair. "So, is it possible that
whoever killed your partner thought he, they, were practicing
this? But what were they trying to do?"
"Whatever they were trying to do, they were twisting the magic
into something evil," Mo's voice was very quiet. "And can you
imagine what kind of energy results from rape and brutality?"
"It's also possible that they were choosing women for the rituals
who already had considerable power," Scully put in. "And that's
why you need protection."
Mo swallowed. She nodded.
"All respect," Doggett put in, "but I just don't get what you mean
by magic. I mean, it's not real, as far as I can tell."
"Agent Doggett, it's very real. You may not believe it, but it's
as real as you and I."
"Can you show me?" His pale blue eyes challenged her.
Mo drew a deep breath and looked at him. "Okay," she said.
"Magic is energy--it can be raised through ritual, chant, dance,
drumming, sex, meditation--just about anything. But then it has
to be focused. I use it every day of my life, in my healing." She
looked at Scully. "You seem to understand, at least a little.
You, on the other hand," she said to Doggett, "apparently need to
be shown."
She took another deep breath and closed her eyes. She placed her
palms on the table in front of her, her fingers curved a bit
toward each other, and was very still.
Doggett could see her chest rising and falling as she breathed
deeply. And then he began to feel it. The atmosphere in the room
had changed. The hair on his arms and on the back of his neck
began to stand up. He felt pressure on his eardrums and his
sinuses. He looked at Scully, who was smiling, just a
little.
Mo exhaled, opened her eyes, and placed her hands flat on the
table next to Doggett's coffee cup. Her fingers were long,
strong, short-nailed, businesslike. "That's a type of magic, Agent
Doggett. Did you feel it?" There was just a trace of a smile on
her face.
"I felt it," he said simply, nodding.
He pushed away from the table. "Agent Scully, if you'll stay here
for a while, I'm gonna go see if I can find Ms. DeLanza's family,
and Jill Bussey's. No, don't get up," he waved Mo away. "I'll be
back in a couple hours. I'll stay here tonight."
Mo raised her eyebrows at him. "You'll what?"
"Look, you may not want to deal with this," Doggett said, "but
you could very well end up the same way as your friends. One of us
needs to stay here with you tonight."
"He's right," Scully said. "I'll stay here until he gets back."
Mo looked at Scully for a long moment. "Okay," she finally said.
She got up and got Doggett's coat. "I'll see you out," she told
him pointedly as he slid the coat on.
She walked with him through the living room and to the door.
His hand on the door, he stopped, turned, and met her eyes. "It's
gonna be all right," he said quietly.
She studied his face. "Thanks," she said simply. She closed the
door behind him and stood at the window for a while, watching him
as he walked to the rental car. It was beginning to snow.
Mo went back to the dining room and sat down at the table with
Scully, saying nothing.
"He's right that you need protection," Scully said.
Mo waved a hand dismissively. "It's all right. I understand. I
just don't like it."
Scully thought it might be good to change the subject. "When I
examined Patricia DeLanza's body today," she said, "there were
some anomalous findings."
"What kind of findings?" Mo asked.
"There were massive neurological disruptions throughout her body.
Her skin around her eyes was burned--the flesh was black. Her
eyes had vaporized."
Mo looked away, and Scully remembered that she was speaking to
the victim's friend, not just someone with expertise that could
help her on the case.
"I'm sorry, I'm just trying to figure all this out," she said
gently to the other woman.
Mo nodded. "I know."
"The M.E. doesn't have any real explanation. The only thing he
seems to be able to do is speculate about radiation or
electrocution. Her ovaries were hyperstimulated, for no apparent
reason. No one seems to know how any of this happened. I checked
her body and confirmed the coroner's report. We just don't have
any logical conclusions."
"Agent Scully, you're an M.D.?" Mo was surprised. "I wouldn't
have guessed. No offense, but doctors usually just have no
patience with my kind of work."
"I used to be like that," Scully admitted. "Things change.
People affect what you believe."
"Are you asking me if I know what could have done that to Patty?
I don't think I can tell you." She was still for a minute,
pinching her lip in thought. "I think Agent Doggett might have
been on the right track before when he was talking about whether
or not the people who killed Patty thought they were raising
power, doing what they did to her." She leaned closer. "But I
think he's wrong on one count. I think they really *are* raising
power. When I work with someone in a healing session, I create a
field of power, for lack of a better term. There's nothing to
stop someone from focusing their personal power in a way that--"
"--could actually injure someone?" Scully finished the thought.
"It's just a thought," Mo said. "Agent Scully, I can make a burn
go away just with the energy that moves through my hands. Why
couldn't someone create an injury, if I can make one disappear?
I've never met anyone who could, or would, do that, but I'm sure
it's been done."
Scully looked at the dark-haired woman for a moment. "Could I ask
you something?" she finally asked.
"Sure," Mo replied.
"How *do* you do what you did earlier?"
She was silent for a moment. "I'm not sure I can tell you,"
she said at last. "I'm not sure I know how to explain it. I just
. . .do it. I've been able to do it as long as I can remember.
I've been able to see things and feel things in people. Sometimes
I wish I could turn it off, and I've learned how to pretend that I
don't know things that I know."
Scully smiled, wondering what, if anything, she might be
pretending not to know about her even as they were speaking.
"Agent Scully, would you want to do a little energy work?"
"I would, actually," Scully said simply.
"Okay," Mo replied. "Just go on in and sit down in the big chair
in the living room. There's a throw on the back of the chair if
you feel cold at all."
Scully walked into the inviting living room. She curled up in the
big chair and tried to relax, pulling the soft throw over herself.
Mo turned a low lamp on against the growing darkness outside. She
moved silently behind the chair and placed her hands at either
side of Scully's head, not quite touching her. She closed her own
eyes. "I think you'll like this," she said.
Scully felt the shift in the atmosphere that she had felt before
and drew a deep breath. Then she felt Mo's gentle hand on her
shoulder.
"It's okay. Nothing weird is going to happen. Just relax. This
is a sacred thing. It's like church." Mo's voice was soft and
soothing, and Scully slowly relaxed.
The atmosphere around her head grew thicker, gently humming with
energy. A delicious warmth suffused her body, slowly, from her
head down through her torso to her legs, and with it a feeling of
deep peace. She was only vaguely aware of Mo, moving around the
chair to concentrate on different areas of her body.
Mo saw the tears spill from the corners of Scully's closed eyes,
trace a silver track across her temples and disappear into her
hair. She held her hands, which were very warm now, over Scully's
face, and then rested her hands atop the other woman's head for a
moment in a sort of blessing. She adjusted the throw over her.
She was sleeping as peacefully as a child.
* * *
Ward, Colorado
The old pickup bounced over the ruts in front of the clapboard
general store. Cam Cavanaugh opened the dusty door and hopped out
onto the cold earth. He was tall and whip-thin, his black hair
pulled back into a long ponytail. He pulled the collar of his coat
up around his neck as he made his way into the store past the dogs
that were milling around on the wooden porch. One of them bared
its teeth and growled at him.
"Hey, Cam," the woman behind the counter called out to him.
"Becka, what's with that asshole dog?--Ranger? It never used to
growl at people," he said.
"Ranger's never growled at anyone in his life," Becka said,
squinting at Cam.
"Huh," he grunted. "Weird." He looked around the store. "So, how's
things?" he asked.
"Not too bad. Snow's coming, you can see it off to the west. It's
a good thing--the ski resorts are hurting," Becka said.
"Yeah. Boo fuckin' hoo," Cam replied.
She rolled her eyes. "What can I get you?" she asked. "The
regular stuff?"
"Yeah," he said. "I need to get Von some other things too." He
wandered off to the back of the store.
Becka busied herself gathering up Cam's order, and he came back
with his items.
"You still living up there with Von?" she asked him.
He nodded.
"No offense, Cam, but he really creeps me out," she said, watching
his face.
"Hey, no offense taken, Becka," Cam said blandly.
Becka narrowed her eyes and looked at the tall man across the
counter. She was glad he didn't have anything to say. She didn't
want to know what the creepy Von was up to, or any of the others
who tended to hang around with him up there. She just wanted them
all to stay as far away from her as possible. She only knew that
Cam used to be a pretty neat guy, and now he was just. . .weird.
Even the dog thought so. She took his money and gave him his
stuff, and watched him go out the door. He gunned the old pickup
truck back into life and bounced across the ruts and back up the
highway to the west, farther up the hill.
* * *
Scully stirred and was startled to realize that she had been
asleep. She stretched a bit, experimentally. She was surprised
at how completely rested she felt, if a trifle dizzy. It had been
a long time since she had felt this good. She moved her head back
and forth on the soft cushions.
"I made some tea--do you want some?" Mo called to her from the
kitchen.
Scully sat up slowly. Tea sounded good.
Mo was writing something when Scully sat down at the table.
"Help yourself." Mo put down the pen and handed the paper to
Scully. "I hope this isn't too forward of me, but these flower
essences might be good for you."
Scully read the list. "Borage, dandelion, cape honeysuckle. . ."
"They're good for grief, Agent Scully. I don't know about your
life, and it's none of my business, but it's what I feel from you.
But you might want to check it out with your OB, just to make
sure."
Scully's looked up, her eyes widening in shock.
"I'm sorry," Mo said, surprised at Scully's reaction. "Did I say
something wrong?"
"No," Scully stared into her mug of tea, stirring the honey into
the hot liquid. "No. It's just that so few people know about
. . .that." She found that it was hard to say the words. She met
Mo's eyes. "I'd really appreciate it if you didn't say anything
to anyone about this," she said.
Mo was surprised, but let it go. "Agent Scully, I don't speak
about my clients to anyone. You can trust that."
"All right."
"Good." Mo nodded and got up and walked into the kitchen.
Scully held the mug of hot tea with both hands and stared at
nothing in particular. What the hell are we up against here? How
does this woman know that I'm pregnant? Why did she say I needed
help with grief? Is she a suspect in all this, or is she in
serious danger?
Then she heard a sound on the porch and she turned quickly, a
little spooked. It was Doggett. He came inside, shaking snow off
his hair and coat. Scully walked into the living room to meet
him.
"What did you find out?" she asked him.
"A couple interesting things," Doggett said. "Here," he said,
taking a notebook out of his breast pocket. He opened it up to a
page covered in his angular handwriting and looked at Scully.
"When I was talking to Patricia DeLanza's husband, I asked him if
he could remember anything unusual--anything at all--that had gone
on in the weeks before she was abducted. About the only thing he
could think of was that she'd been sick with abdominal pain. The
doctor couldn't find anything wrong. They did an ultrasound and
found the ovarian follicles, and there was no apparent cause for
that. The pain went on for several days."
Scully's face was a question.
"Then when I went to see Jill Bussey's partner, she told me the
same thing. Abdominal pain, severe enough to send her to bed for
a couple days." Doggett added.
"So what are you saying, that there's a connection between the
women's pain and their abductions?" Scully asked softly.
Doggett didn't blink. "Well, there's no real evidence that makes
sense. But you have to admit it's a pretty odd coincidence."
Scully sighed.
"You okay?" Doggett scrutinized her closely.
"Yes, actually, I feel better right now than I have in a long
time. Just a little tired." She was quiet for a moment. "I'm
wondering how the abdominal pain is connected to Patricia
DeLanza's ovarian hyperstimulation."
Doggett nodded. "And what caused both."
"You know, I feel like about the only option we have right now is
to wait and see what happens next, to her," Scully looked back
toward the kitchen.
"That's pretty damn ghoulish, isn't it?" Doggett replied. "How's
she holding up?"
"I think she's okay," Scully replied. "She's under a lot of
stress, but she's strong."
Doggett nodded. "By the way, I stopped by the hotel and got my
stuff. I really don't want to sleep in my clothes and have to
shower somewhere else in the morning."
Scully smiled, just a little. She'd been there.
* * *
The Indian Peaks Wilderness Area
Cam carried the last of the supplies in from the pickup and
slammed the door to the cabin. Fuck me, he thought, it's cold in
here. Doesn't Von feel the cold at all?
He banged around in the kitchen, putting things away and trying to
find more chores to do to avoid doing what he knew he had to do
next. He pulled some firewood in from the cord on the back porch
and set it up in the fireplace, arranged the kindling, and ignited
the fire. Before long it was going strong, and the room was
getting a little warmer. Cam warmed his hands for a few minutes.
He went back into the kitchen and gathered some things onto a
tray. He heated up some soup on the stove and sat at the table and
ate a small amount before pouring the rest of the pan of soup into
a small bowl on the tray. He picked it up and carried it into the
back of the cabin, turned a dirty rug back from the floor, and
pulled up the trapdoor there by the ring recessed into it. He
flicked the light switch, and the bulb weakly illuminated the
stairs down into the tiny root cellar.
The woman was lying on her back on the mattress, bound hand and
foot. She was so quiet. . . Then he saw that she was breathing.
"Lady, you need to eat. Here, I brought you some soup." He put
the tray down on the floor and reached over to lift the supine
woman to a sitting position. He untied her gag, and she turned
her tired eyes to his face. She didn't say anything. She was
tall and thin and had short-cropped silver hair. She was pretty
at one time, he thought suddenly. She hadn't eaten much since
she'd been in the cellar, the better part of a week now. "Here,
I'll help you." He spooned some of the soup into her mouth, and
she swallowed. He fed her a few more spoonfuls, and then she
turned her head away.
Cam looked at her, his face torn. She needed to eat, or she was
going to waste away. Not that Von would let it go that far. He
had other plans. "Lady, I really wish you would eat some more."
"Just. . .leave me alone," she said, her voice hoarse. She looked
at him. "Kill me, or let me go."
Cam set his jaw and sighed. He put the gag back in place and
picked up the tray. "I'm sorry," he whispered to her. She lay
back down and rolled on her side, ignoring him.
Cam went up the stairs and closed the trap behind him, replacing
the rug. He carried the tray to the kitchen and set it on the
counter. When he turned to the front room, Von was standing before
the fire. He was a big man, inches taller than Cam and much
heavier. His face was tattooed from temple to temple and around
his eyes. His hair was long and black. He was intimidating, and
Cam was always very careful around him.
"The FBI's sent two agents from Washington, D.C., did you know
that, Cam?" Von turned from the fire and spoke to the other man.
"The FBI--for what?" Cam asked, and then awareness dawned. "The
FBI? Jesus, Von--what the fuck?"
"I'm not worried about it. Why should you? It just might bear a
little watching, that's all. It's a man and a woman. They're
staying with Morgan Dannah. They think that's going to help." He
shook his head and smiled. He walked over to Cam. "Make the
arrangements for midnight, will you? And call the others."
* * *
Thursday Evening
Doggett was restless. Nothing was making a lot of sense to him
right about now. Scully had gone and left him in the old Victorian
with a woman who claimed to heal people with energy. That she was
a damned attractive woman--in an odd kind of way--didn't help
matters any.
He'd removed his jacket, loosened his tie, and rolled up his
sleeves hours ago, and wanted something to do--anything but the
paperwork he'd brought with him to do, he thought wryly.
He walked over to one of the many bookcases in the living room and
examined the titles, the things on the top shelf: a large black
feather, a stone bowl with a stick of what looked like some sort
of herb bound with red thread, a small, framed photo.
Doggett picked up the photo. It was a younger Morgan Dannah, her
curly hair long and pulled back. A tall, blue-eyed man with wild
dark hair stood behind her, his arms encircling her. They were
laughing. It was a charming photo, and he couldn't help but smile
a little as he placed it back on the bookcase.
"That's the reason I came to Colorado," she spoke from behind him,
and he turned to face her. She was toweling off her hair, her
cheeks flushed from the shower. She was barefoot, dressed in gray
fleece pants and a white T-shirt that revealed some nicely toned
muscles. "The guy in the photo, I mean."
"A friend, I take it."
"A husband, actually," she replied, then smiled at his expression.
"An ex-husband for, well, a number of years now. He's a Sierra
Club type, a photographer, and he came out here to Boulder and
fell hard for the mountains. So I left Chapel Hill and came out
here too." She seemed lost in memories for a moment.
"North Carolina? I thought you might be from that neck of the
woods," Doggett said.
"Mmm. I'm from South Carolina--Columbia--but we were at UNC." She
tilted her head just a little and studied him. "You're not
from--?"
"Atlanta, born and bred," he said.
"You don't much sound it."
"Well, I've been away a long time." Doggett looked at her
steadily. "So what happened to the photographer?"
"He chose 'National Geographic' over me in the end," she said.
"Not a very discriminating man, then." Doggett's voice was very
soft.
"That's very gallant, but it was just one of those things. The
last I heard from him, he was in Botswana on a job, and he was
happy." She looked right into his eyes. "You a married man, Agent
Doggett?"
He weighed his words. "Not for a while now."
In the sudden, charged awkwardness, Mo took a deep breath and let
it out. "Agent Doggett, I--"
"John," he said. "It's John."
She moved closer to him and put her warm hand on his forearm,
below the rolled sleeve of his dress shirt. He noted how her damp
hair curled at the nape of her neck, how her lips curved and her
eyes shone. He stood very straight, very still. Then she placed
her palm directly over his heart, and he shuddered.
"You've been a soldier for a long time," she said to him
thoughtfully. "Is there a man in there too?"
Her words shocked him, confused him, aroused him. He remained
frozen in place for another moment, and then he reached out and
took her face in his hands. He kissed her, gently, enjoying the
softness of her lips, her scent. She wrapped her arms around his
neck, leaning into him, and he kissed her again, harder, until her
lips parted under his mouth.
"Oh," she sighed, as she slid her lips away from his kiss. "Oh,
my." She looked at him.
He let out a pent-up breath and looked at her gravely. "I'm
sorry. I didn't have any right to do that," he said at last,
trying to ignore the fire igniting in his middle.
"No, no--it was purely my fault," she said. "I'm sorry too.
Sometimes I-- I didn't need to say what I was thinking. And I
wasn't exactly runnin' in the opposite direction when you kissed
me." She moved away from him slightly, but held on to his arms.
"I guess sometimes lightnin' just strikes," she added softly.
"Yeah, maybe so," Doggett said. "But not now, not with. . . what's
goin' on, what I'm here to do."
Mo sighed, but then nodded. "You're right," she said. "But, oh,
that was so nice." She let her fingers slide down his arms slowly.
Then she picked up the towel she'd dropped on the floor and walked
back into her bedroom, leaving him standing there.
"Jesus Christ," he muttered, shaking his head.
* * *
He was sitting in the large armchair in the living room, trying to
catch up on some paperwork. She was sitting at one end of the old
sofa by the fireplace, reading. She was wrapped in a soft fringed
throw and looked very comfortable. Though Doggett rarely hurt for
female companionship when he wanted it, it had been a long time
since he'd lived with a woman, and this was a very feminine house.
There was music playing quietly from somewhere, he wasn't sure
where, and the atmosphere in the house was peaceful, comfortable.
So comfortable, in fact, that the last thing in the world he
wanted to be doing was those goddamn expense reports. He glanced
at his watch. 8:37.
He got up and walked to the front bay windows, etched with white
frost. It was still snowing, and the big flakes glistened in the
halo of a streetlamp in front of the house. It really was pretty,
although he wasn't usually too wild about cold weather.
Southern genes, he figured.
Mo watched him standing at the windows. She could feel his
restlessness. She felt it in herself. She laid her book down and
got up and padded into the kitchen.
He turned from the windows and watched her as she walked. He heard
her in the kitchen opening a cupboard, taking something down,
turning on the gas burner. And then it was silent for a while,
and then it was silent for too long. Frowning, Doggett stood very
still and listened. When he heard her strangled cry he was already
halfway to the kitchen, his gun drawn.
She was sitting on the floor, backed up against the low cupboards,
hugging her knees to her chest. She was staring at something
across the room that he couldn't see, her face dead white and her
eyes wide and terrified.
He knelt next to her and quickly checked her for any physical
damage. Nothing.
"What is it?!" he asked her. When she didn't respond, he strode
past her to the other side of the kitchen where there was. . .
nothing. But something was making the hair on his arms and the
back of his neck stand up. He turned back to Mo.
"I need your help," she said suddenly. She motioned to him to
come nearer. He holstered his weapon and knelt down beside her, in
total confusion. "Please, don't ask questions, just do as I say.
Here, sit behind me and bring your arms around--just brace me like
that. Just hold still and hold me tight--don't let me go no matter
what I say. Don't say anything, no matter what happens, no matter
what you feel. Okay?" She turned around and looked intently into
his face. Her eyes had that same steeliness he'd seen earlier.
He frowned, uncertain, and then nodded.
Doggett could feel her trembling, and he wrapped his arms around
her tightly. What was going on here? Was she crazy? Was *he*?
He could feel and hear her breathing deeply and evenly. Her heart
was thudding in her chest, very fast. And then he began to feel
warm. Her body temperature was rising, and so was his. It wasn't
sexual. It wasn't like anything he'd ever felt before, a flush of
heat from the top of his head down to his feet. He closed his
eyes. What the hell had he gotten himself into? He finally just
took a deep breath and hung on for the ride.
After what seemed to Doggett an interminable time, her head fell
limply back against his chest. He gathered her closer and lifted
her up. He carried her out to the sofa and laid her down, covering
her with the throw. She was white, and so still. He bent over
her and listened, just to make sure she was breathing. Satisfied
that she was, he studied her still face for a moment. Her skin
was wet with sweat, and there were tears beaded on her eyelashes.
What in God's name had just gone on?
He stood up and retrieved his cell phone from his jacket pocket
and punched Scully's number on his speed dial.
"Scully."
It was good to hear her voice. "Agent Scully, we got a little
situation here," he said.
"What's going on?"
He walked away from the sofa toward the kitchen, and Mo saw his
figure move away through a dark haze. He was saying something
into his phone about her and the experience they'd just had, and
she realized just how little he'd understood of what had happened.
She would try to explain it to him later. But right now she was
so tired, so tired. . .
"No, I don't think you need to come," Doggett was saying into the
phone. "I think she's going to be okay."
"She's breathing okay? Is her color back? What about her pulse?"
Scully asked.
"Her breathing's okay." He walked back over and looked down at
Mo. He pressed his fingers against the side of her neck,
searching for the pulse there. It was steady, slower now. "Her
pulse seems normal."
"Well, then, probably the best thing is to just let her sleep. We
can talk to her in the morning about what happened. I have a
feeling it might be important."
"Yeah. See you in the morning then." Doggett slid the phone back
into the pocket of his jacket. He sank down into the chair with a
sigh, running his hand through his hair. What the hell, he
thought, and rested his head on the back of the chair for a
minute.
When he awoke, she was no longer on the sofa. Concerned, he stood
up and looked around, his hand on his weapon. He walked over to
the door to the bedroom. He looked in and saw her curled on her
side in the bed, burrowed under a comforter. He watched her for a
moment, waiting to see her body move slightly with her quiet
breathing. He silently backed away from the door and went back
into the living room.
He checked his watch. It was 10:30. He frowned. He'd slept for
a while. This wasn't like him, at all. The file of paperwork was
still sitting there on the arm of the chair, waiting for him.
Expense reports. He couldn't believe how lax he'd gotten with
this stuff lately. He forced himself to sit down and focus on the
hated forms. He propped his legs up on the ottoman and opened up
the file.
* * *
"I've fallen asleep in that chair more than a few times myself."
Lost in receipts and petty cash forms, Doggett looked up. She was
standing there, dressed in a robe.
"You okay?" he asked her. "How you feeling?"
"I think I'm going to be fine, but I have a little headache. And
I'm tired. That's probably why you fell asleep, too." She walked
over to the chair until she was close enough that he could reach
out and touch her. "Thank you for helping me. I couldn't have
done that without you. Your strength."
"What the hell was that all about?"
"It was a psychic attack." Her gaze was very steady.
Doggett nodded. "Okay," he finally said, not knowing what else
to say. Psychic attacks weren't exactly his purview.
"You don't think too much of what I do, do you, Agent Doggett?"
she asked at last, quietly.
He could see that she was very serious. He considered the
question just as seriously.
"Let me put it this way. I'm not sure I believe in the sort of
stuff you do, no. He placed the file on the floor beside the
chair and gave her his full attention. "But I've been working
with Agent Scully long enough now that I trust her instincts.
And if she thinks you aren't totally full of it, then I have
to think about that, don't I?"
"Well, it's good to know you don't think I'm totally full of it,"
she said, amused.
"I've seen some things in the last few months that have messed
with my head some. And you did some things today that are
definitely on the scale," Doggett admitted.
"So you don't think I'm crazy."
"Maybe a little," he said with a trace of a smile. "But there's
stuff going on here I can't begin to understand."
Then he reached out and grasped her wrist, never looking away from
her face. "Come here," he said softly, absently rubbing his thumb
across the soft skin of her forearm.
She looked at him for a moment, taking his measure, and then she
sat down on the arm of the chair. He reached up and put his other
hand on the back of her neck and pulled her into his lap. He
kissed her slowly and gently, tasting her, her cheeks, her neck.
She sighed. Then he pulled her tighter and kissed her mouth
insistently, until she opened her lips to him and kissed him back.
She caught his lower lip between her teeth and drew it into her
mouth, her hands on his face, in his hair.
Untying the black silk belt at her waist, he pulled the robe off,
caressing her back and shoulders, enjoying the pure sensuousness
of it. He slipped the nightgown's thin straps off her shoulders
with deft fingers, and she let it fall to her hips. He trailed
slow kisses down her neck and her shoulder, back to the hollow of
her throat. He heard the moan it evoked, felt it beneath his
mouth, and he smiled against her neck. His mouth moved down
across her chest to a tiny, crescent-moon tattoo over her right
breast. He kissed it and then took her nipple in his mouth, and
she arched her back in pleasure. He ran his hands over the soft
curve at the small of her back, across the gentle slope of her
hips, down her thighs. Her body had a down-to-earth beauty, sinewy
and strong and soft all at once.
His hands on her hips, she straddled him and kissed his eyelids,
then his sharp jaw line and down again to his mouth, kissing him
slowly, again and again, and he moved his hands to her breasts.
She tugged his tie off, unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off his
shoulders. She kissed his neck and trailed her tongue down to his
shoulders, his chest. He put his hand in her unruly hair, and
then all he was really aware of was her warm breath and her lips
on his chest, his belly, her hands at his belt. And then he was
simply cooperating with the inevitable.
Neither of them noticed the dark figure standing on the porch,
watching them through the window.
The man with the tattoos around his eyes was satisfied. She would
be much better than the others for what he needed. It would be
too bad if she had to die too, but the truth was that he didn't
really care.
* * *
Friday Morning
Light was just starting to infuse the bedroom when Doggett
blinked awake, wondering just where the hell he was. He rolled
over and looked around. The woman in the bed with him was curled
on her side away from him in a graceful arc, cocooned in the heavy
comforter against the chill in the room.
Jesus. What had happened here? But, of course, he knew perfectly
well what had happened.
He had had thoughts of putting a stop to what had gone on the
night before in her living room. But he couldn't remember the
last time he had felt that way, and he couldn't--or, probably more
true, wouldn't--stop it.
She had taken him to her bedroom, and they had made love again in
her big bed, slower, sweeter, with less scratch and pant and bite
but no less satisfaction. Spent, he had held her there in her
flannel sheets, the sweat still cooling on his skin, and asked
himself what in God's name he was doing.
Never in his professional life had he done anything remotely like
this, remotely this unprofessional. Oh, there was no question
that being with her had felt good, remarkably akin to love. But
he was there to protect her, not to seduce her--not that he had
been doing all of the seducing, he reminded himself wryly. But it
just wasn't in him to take advantage of a woman. Had he done
that?
He watched her as she slept, her breathing slow and quiet. He
ran his fingers down the curve of her cheek. He had touched or
kissed just about every square inch of her the night before, but
she was a puzzle to him, a confusing, compelling woman. Not his
woman.
She stretched and rolled over into his chest. She put her face
against his shoulder and wrapped her arm over him. He put his
hand on her hip. She made a sleepy noise deep in her throat, and
he brushed her hair away from her face. Opening her eyes, she
gradually focused on him, and she smiled and slid a thigh between
his legs.
"Are you okay?" he asked her. She could hear the layers of
meaning in the simple question.
"I'm okay. Last night was the first night I've gotten any real
sleep in a long time," she whispered. "Thanks for that, darlin'."
She yawned and put her hand on his chest and ran her fingers
through the fine golden-brown hair there. She read his feelings
on his face. "I'm fine. I'm safe. Nothing's wrong." She traced
patterns on his skin. "You know, you have the sweetest freckles on
the back of your shoulders," she murmured sleepily.
He smiled, amused. He touched her breast, gently rolling the
nipple between his thumb and fingers, and felt it harden. Amazing
things, nipples. "And you have very pretty breasts," he said.
She drew her breath in sharply as he took her nipple in his mouth
and circled it with his tongue.
Then he rolled atop her and kissed her mouth, and her body rose
to meet his, her hands on his back. . .
. . .and his cell phone rang, from somewhere in the living room.
He raised his arm and squinted at his watch. 6:04 a.m.
"That's gotta be Scully." He gave Mo an apologetic look, rolled
out of bed and went to get the phone.
Mo sat up, feeling a knot in the pit of her stomach. It couldn't
be good that his partner was calling him at 6 in the morning. She
got out of bed and slid on a robe. Coffee would probably be a
good thing.
In the kitchen, she scooped coffee into the paper filter with
suddenly shaking hands, listening to the one-sided conversation.
"Where'd they find her?" Doggett was very aware of Mo, and turned
his back, lowered his voice.
Her vision suddenly blurred with tears, and she put the last scoop
of coffee into the filter, not really seeing it.
"You're there now. Okay. I'll get ready. Yeah." Doggett punched
the phone off.
Mo sank to her knees on the kitchen floor, sobbing helplessly.
She felt him pull her up gently and cradle her in his lap. "Shhh,
now." He brushed her hair from her face and wiped the tears from
her cheeks, and then he just held her. She pressed her face
against his naked chest, unable to stop the storm of tears.
He let her cry, holding her and stroking her hair, silently. At
last she quieted, and her breathing became more normal.
"You gonna be all right?" he finally asked her.
"I don't know." She wiped her eyes and swallowed. "What are my
choices?"
He helped her up, and she leaned into him for a moment. "It's
Jill," she finally said.
He nodded. "County Sheriff's office found her about an hour ago."
She didn't say anything.
"Scully's coming to get me--and you have to come along. There's
no way I'm leaving you here alone."
She nodded. She saw that she was still holding the coffee scoop,
and she set it on the counter with trembling hands. She walked
into her bedroom, fast, before the tears could come again.
* * *
He stood in the doorway of her bathroom as he buttoned his shirt,
watching her dress. She shrugged into a lacy white bra and
fastened it in front, slid on a pair of jeans, and pulled a black
knit turtleneck out of a drawer. She tugged it over her shower-
damp hair and tucked it into the jeans.
There were a man's things in her bathroom, a razor, shaving soap,
some aftershave. Doggett found himself wondering who it was who
shared her bed. Not that it was any of his business.
She combed her fingers through her hair in the mirror over her
dresser. Seeing the pain on her face, he felt like a voyeur. Her
haunted eyes met his in the mirror, and she turned to look at him.
Neither of them spoke.
* * *
Waiting for Scully, they stood together in her living room, close
enough to touch but somehow distanced.
Then Mo put her hand on Doggett's arm, and he tilted his head
toward her to listen. "Something's wrong," she said quietly.
He looked at her, frowning, and went to the front door, onto the
porch. He stopped dead still, and she came to the door.
"Mo--stay inside," he said. She looked at him questioningly. Her
eyes widened at the sight of the weapon in his hand. "I'm not
joking," he said.
She watched through the window as he walked around the porch,
peering at the boards of the porch itself and the walls of the
house. She saw him pull out his phone and speak to someone
briefly, his face grim. He put the phone away and walked down the
porch steps and disappeared from her line of sight, walking around
the side of the house. She opened the door and walked carefully
out onto the porch. Scrawled in red on the front of the house and
on the porch were the runic and Sanskrit symbols that had been
painted on Patricia DeLanza's body--and there were other ones that
she vaguely recognized. Horrified, she went back into the house
and sat down on the upholstered ottoman.
Doggett found her there a few minutes later when he came back in,
annoyed and concerned about the open front door. He shut it behind
him.
"It's him," she said, so softly that he had to incline his head to
hear her. "John. It's him."
"It's who?" He frowned.
"I don't know who he is. I just know he wants me." She shivered
and hugged her arms close to her body.
Doggett's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"
She looked up at him. "What went on in the kitchen last night--it
had to be the same person who took Patty and Jill. I thought maybe
that was the case last night, and I should have told you then--I
just thought--"
"You thought I wouldn't listen to you," Doggett said.
"Well, maybe, but. . .last night I just wanted to forget, I just
wanted--" Her face flushed.
He looked away for a moment, uncomfortable. Then he turned back to
her. "Well, I could have asked you about it last night. In fact,
I should have."
She nodded. "Maybe. But he was trying to get to me. He must have
been here--I mean actually *here*. And I should have known--I
should have known."
"But what was he trying to do?" Doggett asked.
She looked at him and frowned. "Maybe you've heard of psychic
vampires, people who feed off of other people's energy. I think
that's what he is. But you saw what happened to me last night.
That went way beyond taking someone's energy," she said. "It was
an attack. I did my best to fight it."
"But he didn't go away," Doggett said, realization dawning
on his face. "And whoever it was who attacked you was trying to
weaken you, is that what you're saying?"
"I think so." She rubbed her forehead. "Something like that must
have happened to Patty and Jill, too. Oh, god, I've been so
stupid."
Doggett didn't know what to say to her.
He turned at the sound of footsteps on the porch. It was Scully,
with a tall, brown-haired man in a down jacket.
They came inside, stamping the snow off their feet. The man
showed Doggett his detective shield. "Steve Thomas," he said.
"John Doggett," Doggett said, nodding to Thomas.
"I'm Morgan Dannah," Mo said, extending a hand to the detective,
who took it with a smile.
"You own this house?" Thomas asked her, his gentle brown eyes
sizing her up.
"Yes, it's my business and my home," she nodded.
"Can I ask you a few questions?" Thomas spoke softly. "Could we
go sit down?"
"Sure," she said. "Come on in here." She led him into the dining
room.
Scully moved closer to Doggett. "So what is going on?" She spoke
softly.
He shook his head. "You got a few hours?" he asked dryly. He
inclined his head toward the dining room, and they walked over to
where the detective and Mo were talking quietly.
"I can only describe bits and pieces to you," Mo was saying.
"And you never really saw this guy," Detective Thomas asked.
Mo sighed. "No."
"You didn't see or hear anything last night, is that right?"
She hesitated. "Not exactly, no, but--"
Scully glanced at Doggett and then turned to Mo. "Did you see
something?" she asked.
"It was just an impression, Agent Scully. I only really have a
feel for parts of his face." She closed her eyes for a moment.
"His face is tattooed, around his eyes. . .or where his eyes
should be. But there's nothing there."
"His eyes are gone?" Scully asked, puzzled.
"No," Mo said. "There's just. . .nothing there."
Detective Thomas was by nature a polite man, but he had heard just
about enough. "Ms. Dannah, I think that's probably about all I
have for you right now. Was anyone else here with you last night?"
"Just Agent Doggett," she replied.
Thomas glanced at Doggett and then back to her. "Okay, thanks,
then. I'll be in touch if I have any more questions." He stood up
and walked toward the living room, catching Doggett's eye on the
way out. The two men walked over to the door together.
Scully and Mo watched them, silent. At length the detective left,
and Doggett walked back over to them.
Doggett ignored Scully's questioning look. He looked at his
watch. Christ, how could it possibly be only 7:30? The day felt
old already.
Mo got up and walked to the telephone. They could hear her
speaking quietly to someone.
Scully looked up at Doggett. "The M.E. hasn't done the postmortem
on Jill Bussey's body yet, but I had a chance to look at it
earlier."
"What'd you find?" he asked.
"From a gross examination, she died the same way as Patricia
DeLanza. Same symbols painted on the skin, same burns, although
her eyes were still intact, same cuts on the chest, blood loss,
signs of violent rape."
Doggett glanced at Mo in the kitchen. "It'd be real good if she
didn't have to hear about this," he said quietly to Scully.
* * *
Friday Evening
Scully sat at the dining table going through the file Eilers had
given them the day before. Her eyes were tired, and her head
hurt. Whoever thought her job was non-stop action only needed to
see this part of it, she thought. She watched Doggett at the far
end of the living room. He was standing like a coiled spring at
the bay window, looking out into the growing dark at something, at
nothing. He turned and walked away from the window.
From the armchair, Mo looked up from her book and put a hand out
to stop him as he walked by. He looked down at her, and she said
something to him in a voice so low that Scully couldn't hear her.
By design or not, Doggett positioned his body between Scully and
Mo. He bent down and spoke to her, his words also too quiet for
Scully to hear.
The tenderness of their body language was hard to hide, and Scully
raised her eyebrows and looked back down at the file on the table.
Doggett walked into the dining room and pulled up a chair across
from Scully.
"You know," Scully said to him, "I was just thinking about
something Lieutenant Eilers said to us yesterday, about the two
kidnapped women just walking away from their homes and never
coming back."
Doggett nodded. "Yeah."
She leaned over the table toward him and spoke softly. "I wonder
if whoever killed them was trying the same thing with Mo, last
night."
Doggett frowned in thought. "She mentioned to me this morning that
the other women might have experienced a similar attack."
"Is it possible that she is just enough stronger than they were
that she could fight off the influence?--you said she thanked you
for helping her?"
Doggett ran his hand through his hair. "Yeah, and that didn't
make a lot of sense to me at the time."
Scully took a deep breath. "What if whoever is doing this
attacking is starting to realize that he's not going to be able to
get her to just walk out and, in essence, deliver herself to him?
That he's going to have to come and get her?--I mean, assuming he
wants her--but if we can assume that he's taking these women to
increase his own power, then Mo would be a prize for him."
Doggett looked her in the eyes. "You're saying she's the only one
he hasn't been able to manipulate long-distance, so. . ."
"So if he needs her, he has to come get her. And it's pretty clear
that he--or someone--was here last night."
"Jesus," Doggett sighed.
The cell phone in his breast pocket went off, and he pulled it
out. "Doggett," he said.
Scully watched his eyes go cold as he listened.
"Okay," he finally said. "I'll meet you there when your guy gets
here."
He put the phone away. "That was Detective Thomas. He says
there's something going down near the mouth of Boulder Canyon. He
says it has to do with this case. He's sending a car, and a
guy to stay here with you two."
Scully could see from his face that arguing with him about who
should stay and who should go wouldn't do any good. She filed it
away for later.
* * *
Doggett got out of the car and walked over to Thomas, who was
standing just inside the line of police cars at the base of the
sheer bluffs at the mouth of the canyon.
"The hell--?" He looked at the bluff.
"Yeah," Thomas said.
On the rock wall were the symbols that were becoming depressingly
familiar, painted in some sort of phosphorescent paint, glowing
softly in the darkness.
"And that's nothing," Thomas added. He led Doggett over to a
scrubby area just below the bluff.
"Good God," Doggett said.
The woman was lying on her back, dressed in a long robe that was
open from her chest to her feet. Her body was painted in blood.
She was dead, her sightless eyes staring through Doggett. He knelt
down to get a closer look. The same symbols were there on her
skin. He pulled her robe closed and sighed, then stood up and
turned back to Thomas.
"From what we can figure out, she was part of the group run by the
guy who's been doing these killings. And we got two guys," Thomas
said. "Over there. One's in a car with Officer Wilson. The other
guy was dumb enough to think he could take on an armed uniform."
Thomas shook his head.
"The long-haired guy?" Doggett asked, squinting in the direction
Thomas pointed.
"Yeah, that's the one."
Doggett walked away from the bluff, back toward the cars, and
slowly approached the tall man whose bloody arm was being tended
by an EMT.
Cam Cavanaugh looked up then, his eyes dull with pain. Recognition
dawned in them when he saw Doggett. "You're the FBI," he said.
Doggett frowned.
"You're the one who's been with the Dannah woman," the long-haired
man said with an odd smile. "Oh, man, don't you know she's already
dead?"
Doggett walked another pace closer. "You might just want to shut
your fuckin' mouth," he said, quiet. The other man stopped
smiling.
* * *
"Is it a sexist thing?" Mo asked Scully after Doggett had left.
"Do the police always deal with him instead of you?"
Scully regarded her with some amusement. She had been thinking
along the same lines herself. "Agent Doggett was a police
detective--maybe that has something to do with it," Scully said
carefully.
"It's the Old Boy thing," Mo said. "Believe me, I understand it."
Scully smiled, liking her. "Well, there's some truth to that."
Officer Fred Pryce was standing in the living room, listening. He
rolled his eyes good-naturedly and turned to them.
The sound of shattering glass made them all jump as a man burst
through the front door. He had reached Pryce and knocked him
down with the butt of his shotgun almost before the other man knew
he was there.
The man aimed the shotgun at Scully and crossed the distance to
her in seconds, knocking her arm and making her shot go wild. He
lifted her completely off her feet and grasped her tightly,
pinning her arms to her sides, tearing the gun out of her hand and
tossing it away. He placed his hands to either side of her head
and pressed, hard.
Scully felt it then, wave after wave of suffocating heat, moving
from her head all through her body. Her face flushed, and her
head began to pound. She started to gasp for air. She tried
to cry out, but she simply didn't have the air.
"What are you doing to her?" she heard Mo shout.
Mo approach him and examined Scully's face, which was red and
streaming sweat. "Stop it, you son of a bitch!" Mo screamed.
"She's going to have a baby!"
Scully felt Mo touch her face, so gentle.
"The little mother," the man said, and laughed.
Mo stared at him. At length, she spoke quietly. "Don't hurt her.
I'll go with you. Leave her alone."
Von focused his eyes on Mo and pushed Scully off to the side. She
dropped to the floor, semiconscious. Mo knelt down beside
her and checked her breathing. Satisfied that Scully would be
okay, Mo closed her eyes, waiting for what she knew was coming.
He grasped her arm and pulled her up roughly, twisted both her
arms behind her and took her out the door into the cold.
* * *
"Yeah," Doggett spoke curtly into the cell phone.
"Agent Doggett, it's Scully."
Something in her voice alerted him instantly. "What is it?"
"Doggett, she's gone. He took her. Pryce is hurt--the EMTs are
here now."
Doggett shut his eyes.
"Agent Doggett?" Scully said to his silence.
"Yeah, I'm here. Are *you* all right?"
"Yeah, I think so. I will be. A little shaken up."
"You sit tight. We'll be right there." He shut off the phone and
strode over to Detective Thomas. "Morgan Dannah's been abducted."
"Oh, Jesus," the detective breathed.
"I gotta get back to my partner," Doggett said. "She was
attacked, your man Pryce is hurt. The EMTs are taking care of him
now."
"Let's go," Thomas said.
Doggett looked back at the dark-haired man being tended to by the
medics, the other man in the police car, the dead woman being
zipped into the bag. What the hell could have brought these
people to do this? Then he followed Thomas to his car.
* * *
Doggett took the steps up to the Victorian two at a time. He
pushed the smashed door open and saw two EMTs working on Officer
Pryce, who appeared to be half-conscious. Scully was sitting on
the ottoman, looking lost. Doggett approached and knelt down in
front of her. Thomas came in the door behind him quietly and also
took in the scene.
"Scully?" Doggett spoke gently.
She looked at him. There were dark circles under her eyes. "Agent
Doggett," she said.
"Can you tell me what happened here?"
She sighed. "Yeah. It was straightforward, up to a point. A man
broke in, right through the door, hit Pryce with the butt of
his shotgun and grabbed me before I could even get a shot off."
She was quiet for a moment, watching Doggett's face. "Then things
aren't quite so straightforward."
"In what way?"
"He put his hands on my head, and--I honestly don't know what he
did, but--the heat was frightening. I couldn't breathe. I came
very close to passing out. And then Mo--" She looked away from
him.
He waited for her to go on. "What did she do?" he prompted her
when she remained silent.
"She told him that she would go with him if he didn't hurt me,"
she replied. "And he took her." She looked up at him again. "What
am I supposed to do with that?" she asked.
Knowing the kindness of her heart, Doggett simply took her hand
and said nothing.
She looked at him in surprise, because he was always so careful
not to cross any boundaries with her. He looked into her eyes for
a heartbeat, for two, and then he looked away.
The moment passed.
He stood up and walked to the center of the room. He turned back
to her. "What did he look like?" he asked.
"It's the man she described to us earlier. There's no question.
Big--probably 6-foot 6, 250 pounds. Long black hair. And he has
the tattoos around his eyes that Mo described, almost like a
mask."
"So he *does* have eyes?" Doggett asked ironically.
"Yes," Scully replied, "but maybe Mo was seeing what he *really*
looks like."
Doggett frowned, not wanting to hear that right now. "Well, the
cops have two of his accomplices in custody, and a dead woman."
"Dead? How?"
"Jesus," Doggett shook his head, "it's just so over the top. They
killed her, all just to grab our attention."
"I wonder. Did she sacrifice herself for the cause?--whatever the
cause is," Scully said thoughtfully. "There must have been pretty
strong motivation." She stood up and went over to Doggett. "The
man who took Mo must have a lot of power to get people to do
something like that. And she must have something he wants badly."
"Yeah, maybe so," Doggett said. "But I'm thinking the guys the
cops have are gonna bring this whole thing down."
* * *
Doggett and Scully walked into the interview room at the Boulder
County Jail, and Doggett shut the door behind them with a bang.
Cam Cavanaugh jumped at the noise. He sat at the long table, his
arm in a sling, and looked up at them. His eyes got wide.
"You," he said to Doggett, who smiled and walked closer to him.
"Yeah." Doggett spread his hands on the table in front of Cam and
leaned into his face. "Imagine that. You do know you're in deep
shit here, Cavanaugh?"
"Forensics has found blood and hair in your truck bed that match
both the victims," Scully said. "We thought you might want to know
that going into the interview."
Cam's eyes slid from Doggett to Scully and then back to Doggett,
who was standing so close that Cam could smell the faint scent of
the other man.
"We need to know where your buddy is," Doggett said to him, "and
we need to know it now, because we don't have any more time."
"I don't know where he is--"
"That's *bullshit*! Doggett exploded, pushing the table, hard. "I
don't wanna hear any more crap from you!--do you *get* that? That
tattooed bastard has killed two women and has another one right
now. There's a felony murder statute in this state, and if
anything happens to that woman, I'm gonna do everything I can to
make sure you get put away till your lights go out."
"So, Mr. Cavanaugh, it'd be in your best interest to tell us what
you know, because you can get life without parole for this even if
you only drove the truck," Scully added.
Cam stared at her. "Get him out of here," he said, jerking his
head at Doggett. "He wants to kill me. Get him *out* of here!"
Scully walked over to him. "Mr. Cavanaugh, Agent Doggett has
every right to be here, and you don't have any choice about
whether he stays."
"I'll talk to you. I will. Just get him the fuck out of here."
Cam refused to look at Doggett, who stepped away from the table a
pace.
Doggett threw Scully a glance. "I'll be right outside," he said
and left the room.
Scully came back out in less than five minutes. She gestured to
the officer waiting to escort Cam. "He can go now," she said.
She walked over to where Doggett was slouching against the wall,
his arms crossed. "Well, he wants to talk to an attorney, but he
told me where to find his accomplice."
"Where?" Doggett asked, standing up straight.
"West of here, a cabin up in the Indian Peaks area."
Doggett shook his head. "Well, maybe he's not as dumb as he
looks," he said, "or maybe the bastard's psychic, 'cause he got
one thing right. I did want to kill him."
Scully looked at him. He wasn't joking.
* * *
Mo lay on her belly in the darkness and listened to the blood
pulse in her ears. The darkness had a texture of its own, and
after a while she began to think she could see colors in it.
Her wrists and ankles ached from where he had tied them, yanking
them behind her, too tight, too tight. With every heartbeat, she
could feel the pulse of blood to the bound areas. She squirmed,
flopping her body forward, then to the side. There had to be a
way out of this. She slid off the mattress he had thrown her on,
and ended up wedged against the wall.
She closed her eyes and felt the burn of tears behind her lids.
The thought came, unwelcome: This must be where Patty and Jill
spent their last days. And I'm not going to make it out
of here either.
She didn't want to die.
She could only hope that they could find her before the crazy man
used her up too, just the way he had Patty and Jill.
* * *
Exhausted, she had finally fallen asleep. The sudden light in the
room and the heavy footsteps on the stairs woke her. She was
hauled up roughly, the rope at her wrists and ankles cutting into
her skin, and she cried out despite herself. He picked her up and
carried her up the steps under one arm.
He banged through the door and carried her into the front room and
dropped her onto the sofa.
Von stood over her. She knew that he would try to destroy her--it
was part of his need. If she could keep him out of her head, she
might survive--unless he outright killed her with some sort of
weapon.
He knelt down until he was on her level. His dark eyes focused on
her pale ones. "Let's talk about the man from the FBI. I want to
know something." He actually smiled. "I want to know how it felt
when he was inside you. I watched you, you know. I stood outside
your window and watched you."
Mo felt hot blood in her face and a wave of nausea. She shut her
eyes. She focused on her breathing and on the pain in her wrists.
He was not going to do this to her.
"You liked it," Von said, putting his face too close to hers.
She looked him in the eyes. "Yes," she said, "I liked it. I
liked him. Don't try to make it ugly."
"It wasn't ugly. It was powerful," he said. "Sex is always
powerful, whether it's creative or destructive."
"That's why you took my friends. That's why I'm here."
He stood up. "You're useful. And anything that increases
what I can take from you works in my interest. It was very
accommodating of him to find you so. . .attractive."
"Why do you hate us?" she asked him.
"I don't hate you," he replied. "I don't feel anything for you at
all. You're just useful." He smiled at her again.
He reached out and put his big hands on either side of her head.
He had changed. This was the face she had seen the night before:
the man with no eyes. She couldn't get her breath, and she was
getting so hot. He pressed his hands tighter and tighter against
her head, and she began to sweat, her face began to burn. She
fought for breath, taking in ragged gulps of hot air, and finally
she lost consciousness.
He took the large knife from its sheath on his belt and slowly
and methodically sliced her shirt off, then the lace bra, and then
the jeans.
"It's your turn now," he said, and lowered the knife to her chest
and began to cut.
* * *
Friday Night
The SWAT team had made short work of the cabin door, and were
clearing people away from the front of the cabin. Scully stuck
close to Doggett. She took in the scene in an instant: the
smoking candles, the heavy incense in the air, the drumming that
stopped abruptly when the police had swarmed into the cabin.
There were people scattering everywhere, to each side and to the
back of the cabin.
Then Scully caught sight of the still form on the floor in front
of the candles, and she ran to the supine figure. She knelt
beside Mo and pressed her fingers firmly against her carotid
artery. There was a pulse, thin and faint, frighteningly fast.
She heard Doggett shouting at the back of the cabin, but then
focused her attention on the woman in front of her. Mo's eyes
were half open, fixed in the middle distance, but they were dull,
dark, and unseeing. Her face was bloody and bruised and there was
blood-painting on her chest, breasts, arms and legs, but more
worrisome was the blood running from wounds on her chest, some
fresh, others already crusting. Scully stripped off her jacket
and pressed it against Mo's chest. She looked around, worried.
"Wilson!" She called out to the handsome young cop. "I need
blankets from the Bronco. And you need to call the hospital
and tell them we have a critical patient on the way. Please move
--*now*!" The patrolman got the message and headed out the door
at a dead run.
The man came out of nowhere, and Scully felt him behind her before
she saw him. She turned and raised her gun just as the tall
figure leaped at her. He was blood-smeared and wild-eyed, and he
landed on top of her, knocking her to the hard floor. She twisted
under him, kicking with all her strength. He grabbed her throat
with his huge hands and squeezed until she began to see spots of
white light.
The shot was deafening in the cabin, and the crazy man fell limp
on top of her. She pushed him off of her, fighting back a scream.
His chest was blossoming blood from her gunshot. It was the man
with the tattoos.
"Scully, you all right?" Doggett was running toward her. He
helped her up and peered into her face, concerned.
"Yeah--yes, I'm okay." She pushed her hair out of her face, and
moved back to Mo.
Doggett turned and saw her. He knelt down beside her and cradled
her body in his arms, swallowing his anger. She was limp, and so
cold. "Is she--?" he looked up at Scully, his face stricken.
"She's alive, but she won't be much longer if she doesn't get
medical attention right now--and it's going to take a while to get
her there. You go ahead and take her down. I need to stay here
and take care of this--" She gestured to the dead man.
Doggett lowered his face to Mo's, in the crook of his arm. Her
body shuddered, and she tried to focus her eyes on his grim face.
"Be still now. You're gonna be all right. We're gonna get
you help."
"John," her voice was so weak that he had to lower his ear to her
mouth. "I knew you'd come."
"We'll take care of you now. You're gonna be all right," he
murmured to her, but she could no longer hear him.
Wilson brought the blanket to him on the run, and they bundled the
unconscious woman into it. Doggett gathered her up and carried
her to the waiting Bronco.
* * *
"Dr. Scully?" the white-coated man came out of the ICU at Boulder
Community Hospital and quietly shut the door behind him.
Scully turned as the doctor walked over to her and Doggett, who
stood next to her, dangerously still. "Yes, I'm Scully. How
is she?"
"She's very weak. It's as if her entire body had been under
unremitting stress--or subjected to radiation of some kind. It's
one of the damnedest things I've ever seen."
"Do I understand correctly that she wasn't raped?" Scully asked.
"There's no sign of that, no."
Doggett stared at the doctor. "Her other injuries--she gonna be
all right?
The doctor turned to Doggett. "Right now, we're not sure. We're
hoping she will be, eventually. She may need physical therapy,
she may have some deficit--we just don't know at this point. A
psych consult will probably be indicated eventually. The
incision wounds in her chest were fairly superficial. It's the
neurologic disruptions throughout her system that are the real
problem. She's stable now, and we'll just have to wait and see."
"Can we see her?" Doggett asked.
"She's heavily sedated. I don't think she'll be up to having
visitors for a while. But I'm sure she'll be glad to see you both
when the time comes."
"Thank you, Doctor," Scully murmured, as he strode off down the
hall, his coat flapping.
Doggett looked away for a moment, and then back at Scully, his jaw
set. "We got lucky, you know," he said.
She regarded him gravely.
"He was a stupid, arrogant son of a bitch. If he'd taken her
away, we would never have found her. . .until it was too late."
"I know," she said simply.
"Scully, I gotta stay here for a while. I have a couple days off
coming--I can wrap up loose ends, make sure she's gonna be okay. I
could be back in the office on Tuesday or Wednesday."
Studying his face, Scully didn't say anything. She could see he
was exquisitely uncomfortable, something so very uncharacteristic
of him. "She really got to you, didn't she?" Scully asked,
wonderingly. "And you were so sure that everything she did was
just. . ."
"Bullshit?" Doggett asked ironically.
"Yeah, that about covers it," Scully said.
Doggett studied the floor and then looked up again. "Scully,
she's for real." He was sure he sounded like an idiot and even
more sure that Scully thought so too. "I don't know how, but she
is."
Scully nodded, trying to dispel his awkwardness. "I think she
takes away hurt and brings peace," she said softly. "I really
think that's what she was meant to do. Look what she did for me,
and she didn't even know me."
Doggett was watching her even more intently than usual.
"I think maybe she's one of those people who helps to balance
things out," Scully went on. "So if you want to stay here a few
more days, I understand." She looked away for a second. "When
you find someone like that, you need to take care of her." She
looked up at him again and studied his face. "I wanted to thank
you. . .for being able to accept things that are hard for you."
He looked at her with a quizzical frown. "Agent Scully, I'm here
with you to do whatever's needed, you know that."
"I know. But thank you anyway."
He smiled at her, a small smile, but it erased some of the stress
from his tired face. "Well, you know, the longer I'm on this
assignment, the easier it gets to accept things. It just kind of
seems to work that way. " He shook his head. "Besides, I couldn't
have done anything else."
"I know." Scully repeated.
"I'm gonna go in and see her for a minute. Can you wait?"
"Sure. I'll go down to the cafeteria. I could use something to
eat, anyway."
She could see the thanks in his eyes. She watched him walk into
the hospital room, pull a chair up to Mo's bed, and sit down. He
took her hand and bent closer to her still form. Scully could see
his lips moving, and she wondered what he was saying. Then she
walked down the hall, leaving him his privacy.
* * *
Tuesday afternoon, 1 p.m.
Boulder Police Department
"Thanks for meeting me here, Dr.--"
"MacSalka, Janet. You're Agent Doggett?" The little red-haired
woman took Doggett's hand with a firm grip and smiled. Her brown
eyes were intelligent, and damned if they missed much.
"Yes," he said. "My partner and I were assigned to this case." He
took the chair she indicated. "I was just wondering if you could
fill in a few blanks for me."
"I'll do whatever I can," she said and sat down across from him at
the table.
"You talked to Cavanaugh. I was wondering if he said anything
that sheds any light on why he did what he did with those people,
what motivated them to do what they did."
Janet MacSalka nodded. "He had quite a bit to say, actually. I
hope you don't mind my saying right up front that a lot of what he
said was very strange."
"You gotta think it would be, all things considered," Doggett
said.
She smiled a rather grim smile. "Yes, the whole situation was
strange and very ugly, from what I can gather." She leveled a
shrewd gaze across the table at Doggett. "He seems to believe
that he and the other people that gathered up in the mountains
were practicing magic of some sort."
Doggett pulled his little notebook out of his pocket and thumbed
through it until he found the page he wanted. "The Enochian
mysteries," he read, and looked up. "At least that's what Morgan
Dannah thought."
"The third woman they abducted. Have you heard how she's doing?"
"She regained consciousness yesterday morning. She's not in very
good shape, even so," he said.
MacSalka frowned. "From what Mr. Cavanaugh could tell me, she was
apparently the one the leader of the group was most interested in
all along. I guess he believed that sexual energy was the most
powerful, and sex--well, rape, in this case--was used to develop
energy, power."
Doggett nodded.
"Cavanaugh told me that the group's leader--" She looked down at
her notes. "--Von Beckwith--believed that he could manipulate
people through some power he had, make changes in their bodies,
increase the sexual power they had."
"There were physical changes in the abducted women that no one
could explain," Doggett said.
MacSalka looked at him appraisingly. "Do you believe that this
Beckwith had anything to do with that?"
"No," he said. "Not really. But there hasn't been any other
explanation, either."
She studied him. "Well, this next thing is extremely odd.
Cavanaugh also told me that Beckwith was pleased that Ms. Dannah
had had some sort of sexual relationship with a man shortly before
she was abducted. Apparently it increased her value in his eyes.
He also seemed to think that he had helped create the liaison."
She didn't miss Doggett's expression. "I told you what he said to
me was strange."
"Do you believe what he told you?" Doggett asked her.
"I believe that *he* believes it. I think he's perfectly
rational, but it's a classic cultic mindset. He was willing to
believe and do anything he was told to, basically. And all the
magic stuff, well, it was just part of the belief system."
"Yeah, a great belief system." Doggett shook his head. "One that
advocates kidnapping, rape, murder."
"On that score," Dr. MacSalka put in, "I think Cavanaugh feels
genuine remorse."
"That doesn't help Morgan Dannah any." Doggett said. "Or her
friends." He stood up. "I appreciate you taking your time
to talk to me. It's been informative."
"It was no problem. I needed to be here anyway. Can I drop you
anywhere?"
"No, thanks. I'm heading to the airport in a while, but I have
another stop first. Thanks again."
He found his own way out. He needed some air.
* * *
2:10 p.m.
Boulder Community Hospital
Doggett walked into Mo's room. Hearing him, she turned her head
on the pillow. "John," she said softly.
He walked over to her bed and looked at her. There were dark
bruises and burns around her eyes and scratches on her face. Her
lips were swollen and cracked. She looked so tired.
"How you doing?" he asked.
She nodded, as if to say, I'm alive. "You go home today?" Her
speech was slow and slurred.
He nodded. "My flight leaves in a few hours."
"Scully?" she asked.
"She went back on Saturday."
She ran a hand over her forehead. "That's right. You told me
that." He pulled a chair up close to her bed, and sat down. "When
you get back home, would you tell her something for me?" she
asked.
"Whatever you want." He took her hand.
"Tell her that I think everything is going to be all right for
her," she said.
"Okay," he said, puzzled, but knowing it wouldn't do him any good
to ask. He watched her eyes grow heavy and remembered the IV
narcotic.
"I'm glad I met you, John," she murmured sleepily.
"Me too," he said quietly.
"Come back and see me. I'll cook you dinner and ply you with
liquor," she said, with a flash of her normal energy.
"I'll come back," he said simply.
"Liar," she said, and squeezed his hand. "Just be safe," she
whispered.
He brushed her hair from her forehead. "You need to rest. Go ahead
and sleep," he said to her. "I'll sit here with you."
"Mmm," she said, her eyes closing.
Doggett sat with her as she slept for the next half hour, holding
her hand and thinking. Then he bent down, smoothed her hair and
kissed her forehead, and walked out of her room and back to his
life.
* * *
Wednesday Morning
Doggett was at his desk when Scully came in, absorbed in something
he was keying into his computer. It wasn't until she walked by him
on her way to Mulder's desk that he seemed to notice he was no
longer alone in the office.
"Morning," he said when he looked up. "Just finishing my field
report."
"Welcome back," she said. She put her satchel on the floor beside
the desk and sat down. "How is everything?"
Doggett knew she wasn't making small talk and, in her rather
indirect way, was asking him a world of things: Is there anything
new in the case? How is Morgan Dannah? How are *you*?
"Well," he said, pushing back from the desk, "I told you on the
phone on Monday that Mo Dannah regained consciousness that
morning, that I was gonna go see her. She didn't know who I
was--"
"Oh, God," Scully murmured.
"But later on, that evening, she recognized me, and we talked for
a while. She really wasn't able to say much." He took a deep
breath. "But each day, she got a little stronger. I went to see
her yesterday afternoon, and she had a little of her old self
back. But they've got her on some pretty heavy painkillers." He
shook his head. "Jesus, I wish to hell there was more I could
do."
She could see that he was disturbed, but she didn't quite know
what was behind it. It was fairly obvious that something intimate
had transpired between him and Morgan Dannah, but she didn't know
the particulars and didn't want to know. Finally she spoke.
"What's going on?" she asked simply.
He looked at her without saying anything for a long moment. "I
just wish I knew whether I contributed to her abduction in any
way," he finally said.
"Why? How could that be?"
"I don't know what to think at this point." He ran his hand
through his hair.
Scully waited for him to go on.
"I went to see the police psychologist yesterday, before I flew
back. She told me that Cavanaugh spoke to her pretty extensively
about what his group was up to. Well, it's all here in my report.
Mostly."
"Mostly?" Her eyebrow arched.
He hesitated. "It's too personal," he finally said. "It's just
that I'd hate to think that anything I did played a role in what
happened to her."
"And what does she say?"
"She thanked me for saving her life." He shook his head in
disgust.
"Doggett, she was a target before we ever came on the scene--
probably the main target. Her own strength was probably what kept
her from being taken as long as it did. Did it ever occur to you
that maybe without you, she would have died up there on that
mountain just like her two friends did?" He looked up at her.
"You said that the night she was psychically attacked, she told
you she needed your strength. Have you begun to understand what
was going on then?"
He was thinking, she could see that. "Scully, I'm not sure I
understand anything anymore."
"I just don't think she operates the same way we do--she works on
a different level. If she said you saved her, maybe she means just
that--just maybe in a way that isn't clear to you. If I were you,
I'd just accept that and be glad she *didn't* die up there." The
gentleness of her voice eased the harsh words.
"You gotta know how glad I am. But it's not enough."
"It's going to have to be enough." Scully persisted. "And whatever
part of you cares about that woman needs to convince the rest of
you that it *is* enough."
* * *
It was still cold, but an oddly warm wind blew Doggett's coat open
as he walked, bottle of wine in one hand, from the car back down
the sidewalk to the house. The porch light of the old Victorian
was on, and the blinds were closed. He stopped at the bottom of
the steps and looked up at the house for a moment. Everything
looked the same as it had a couple of months before, but the snow
was gone, and the sky was clear and black and full of stars.
He felt like a junior high school kid going to pick up his first
date--and after all these years, *that* was pretty damn funny. He
knew his motivations for coming here were mixed, and he didn't
much like the lack of clarity. He wasn't one to let his guard down
very much, but somehow she had managed to get inside, at least a
little, and it confused him.
He climbed the steps to the porch and knocked on the door. He
heard footsteps coming toward him, and she opened the door and
stood silhouetted against the inside lights. She was a little
thinner, had a little less energy, but she looked good. Her black
hair was still a mass of curls, her eyes still direct and kind.
She wore a soft, deep-red dress that buttoned down the front, from
its low neck to its short hem, and it clung to her body just
enough. He hadn't anticipated how good it would be to see her
again, or how his body would respond to the very sight of her.
"Looks like you're expecting someone," he said, looking in at the
low lights, the fire.
She smiled. "Yes," she said. "I'm glad to see him."
He opened his arms to her, and she stepped into them. He kissed
her cheek.
"I hoped you'd come," she said.
"I told you I would," he said.
She took him by the arm. "Yes, you did. But you still surprised
me." She shut the door behind him and took the proffered wine. She
set it on a side table and took his coat and hung it on the coat
tree. "How long can you stay?"
He pushed the sleeves of his black sweater up to his elbows and
looked steadily at her. "I have till Sunday."
"You're welcome to stay here, if you want," she said softly.
"I'd like that," he said. "I just didn't want to assume." He took
a step toward her. "You look good." His eyes grew more serious.
"How are you?"
"I'm okay," she said. "I still have a limp and some memory loss,
but the doctors tell me they both should get better with time."
"Good God," he said.
She put a hand on his arm. "I'm okay," she repeated. "I'm a lot
better now than I was." She shook her head. "Being alive is always
better than the alternative, and I would have died up there, you
know. It was just a matter of time. Y'all just got there first.
I'm happy to be alive."
"You're a gutsy woman, you know that?" he said. "I've been
wanting to ask you why you went with him. You went through hell.
You could have saved yourself, you could have--"
"Left your partner there? That was my only other option. Should I
have done that?" she demanded.
"Someone else might have got to safety," he said.
There was anger in her frank eyes. "And would you even want to be
here with me if I had done that?"
She was right. He wouldn't. And what she had done was simply so
much a part of her that she couldn't imagine doing anything
different.
"We should drink some of your wine," she said. "Or would you
rather have beer? I have some Fat Tire." She smiled at his
expression. "A local beer. It's good."
"Wine's fine," he said.
She went to fetch some glasses, and brought back the corkscrew too
and handed it to him. He opened the bottle and poured the two
glasses half full. He handed her one, and she led him into the
living room where the sofa was pulled up before the fire. She
kicked off her shoes and sat down, tucking her legs up under her,
and he sat next to her.
They sat in contented silence for a while. Doggett watched the
fire and felt his body begin to relax. He stretched his legs out
in front of him and sighed.
"Tired?" she asked, looking at him.
He ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah, a little. It's been a
bitch of a week."
She took a sip of wine, then set the glass down and moved back
next to him. "In what way?"
He looked at her and seemed to be weighing something. He sighed
again. "I haven't been partnered with Scully for all that long.
I was assigned to find her partner when he turned up missing."
"Missing? How?"
"That's the $64,000 question. They were partners for seven, eight
years. She misses him--hell, why shouldn't she? In her position,
*I* would." He laughed a bit mirthlessly. "She didn't much like
me at first."
"You seem to get along," Mo said. "It's pretty clear you care
about her."
"Yeah, I guess so," he said. "It's been tough on her. This past
week we were following a lead on him. . .her partner. It was
promising, and it turned out to be just another dead end." He met
her eyes. "I'm good at tracking fugitives, I really am. It's
what I did for a long time. But I'm thinking this whole search is
a dead end. And Scully's about at the end of her rope."
Mo nodded. "Is she doing okay?" she asked quietly.
Doggett continued to scrutinize her. "You knew she was pregnant,
didn't you?"
She hesitated. "Yes," she finally said.
He shook his head. "She tell you?"
"No. I could read the signs. It's what I do," she added
ironically.
"Well, I could sure use some of that ability right about now," he
said simply.
She took one of his hands and squeezed it. He started to say
something, but the expression on her face stopped him. He watched
her, and waited.
"In the last few weeks," she spoke very softly, "I've thought
about all the things that happened--to me, what happened between
us."
He moved closer to her.
"Do you remember when I said to you that you've been a soldier for
a long time? Was I right?"
"I remember. It was when I first realized I had to kiss you or I
was going to do damage to myself." He nodded. "Yeah, I joined the
Marines when I was 18. It seemed to be about my only option at the
time. And I guess I've been a soldier in one form or another ever
since."
She smiled, but it was wistful. "I don't know how you can do the
work you do. I'm grateful that you do--God knows where I'd be if
you hadn't been there for me--but it's just so foreign to me. It's
almost like we don't live on the same planet."
"Yeah," he whispered.
"I guess I just want to know why you came back here."
"You want the obvious answer? That you make me weak in the knees?
'Cause that's true enough."
"Please don't tell me that's it."
"No." He took her hands and held them in his lap. "It's a lot more
complicated than that. I didn't want you to ever think that I just
slept with you and then forgot you. I wanted to make sure you were
all right. I didn't want to remember you the way you were the last
time I saw you." He turned her hand over in his lap and caressed
her palm. "There are a lot of reasons."
"Is there anything else?" she asked. She could see that there was
something he didn't want to tell her. "Please tell me."
"I felt like I needed to make something up to you--that my
personal involvement with you almost got you killed--"
That shocked her. It was something she had never wanted Doggett
to think about. "Where did you get that idea?"
"I didn't want to tell you this. But I talked to the police
psychologist before I left town last time. She told me that the
guy who kidnapped you was pleased that. . ." He suddenly felt
intensely awkward.
"That we had sex," Mo interjected. "I know."
He looked at her, surprised into speechlessness.
"He mentioned something like that to me," she whispered. "I don't
really remember much of what he said."
"Were you planning on telling me?" he asked.
"Why? It would have just made you feel bad--like you do now," she
said softly. "And I'm surprised you would even entertain it."
He didn't know what to say. "I've had some experiences since I saw
you last," he finally spoke. "They've changed me, at least to some
degree. But I just couldn't stand to think I'd done something to
hurt you."
"You darlin' man. But you weren't responsible for what happened to
me. You and Scully and the others brought me out of that place."
She was close to tears and blinked them back angrily. "You and I--
what we did probably wasn't very wise. It happened so fast, and
it was pretty out of character for both of us, if I read you
right. But I'm not sorry it happened. I wouldn't give back that
night I had with you for anything."
"Well, I went back to D.C. and back to work, and I figured I had
two options." He put his glass on the coffee table. "One was to
leave you alone and regret it, and the other was to try to see
you, and just deal with whatever happened."
"You would have regretted leaving me alone?" she asked quietly,
the surprise honest in her voice.
"I would have," he said simply. "I finally just had to admit that
I wanted to see you again. I wanted to make love to you again." He
regarded her in silence for a moment, and she could see that
talking to her like this wasn't easy for him. "Should I have left
you alone?"
"No," she said. "If you came back here because you wanted to be
with me, that makes me happy. I'm not looking for anything more
from you." She set her glass on the table next to his and turned
back to him.
He put his hand on her neck, and she shivered. It seemed like such
a long time since she'd been touched that way, and she realized
that she wanted it, that she feared it. His hands were big and
warm, and it felt good. Then he held her face between his hands
and kissed her, slowly and gently, coaxing her lips open to the
kiss, to him.
He felt the tears on his fingers as they slid down her cheeks, and
he soothed them away with his thumbs.
"Shhh," he said to her, softly. "Don't cry. I didn't come here to
jump you. It's good, you and me, but I'm not a kid--I can deal
with real life. I can't begin to understand what you went through,
how it must have changed you. I just came here to be with you, for
all those mixed-up reasons."
She smiled and wiped her wet face. "I cry at just about
everything nowadays, and I promised myself I wouldn't, and now,
damn it--"
"It's okay. You're entitled. Let's just have dinner--"
She shut her eyes. "No, I really do. . .I do love this," she
murmured against his mouth. "I knew you were trouble the moment I
met you."
He smiled. "I hope that's a good thing."
He kissed her again, gently and then with more insistence. His
tongue and lips tasted like wine and heat, and she felt a familiar
electric thrill in her belly.
And she knew then that she wanted to remove her fears as she
removed her clothes, to be reminded of exactly how much life was
left in her scarred body and wounded heart.
She put her arms around his neck. He pulled her close, tucking her
body under his, and pressed her back into the soft cushions, being
careful not to hurt her. Their kisses were slow and deep and
languorous, his hands gentle and sensual on her face, her neck,
her breasts, her thighs beneath the soft dress. Just when she
thought she was going to lose her mind, she felt him unbuttoning
her dress, from neckline to hem. He opened it and pushed it off
her shoulders, and she shrugged out of it. He pulled his sweater
and T-shirt over his head and tossed them away.
Kissing her throat, he unclasped her bra with one hand, and she
smiled.
Pushing the lace away from her breasts, he saw the still-red
scars on her chest and ribs, and his face grew sober. He shut his
eyes and pressed his lips to one of the scars, between her
breasts, and she put a hand to the back of his neck, trailing her
fingers across his nape and into his hair. His mouth moved down
her belly, to her navel, and then just to the edge of her lace
bikini, and he kissed and stroked her skin with infinite
tenderness. He made his way back up to her breasts, took her
nipples in his mouth and tasted them with his tongue. Then he
cupped her breasts with his hands and found her mouth again,
urgent now.
She pulled him tight against her, running her fingers over his
hard shoulders, the soft skin of his back. His erection pressed
against her thigh through his jeans, and she rubbed him with the
heel of her hand, smiling as he pushed back against her and
sighed. She felt his fingers at the elastic of her bikini. She
hitched her hips up, and he slid the scrap of lace off and
caressed her naked thighs, her hips, tangled his fingers in the
dark curls between her legs, watching her face.
"Oh, hurry, darlin'," she whispered, and fumbled with the button
of his jeans. He helped her, unzipping them and pulling them off.
He slid his body between her legs. "You're an amazing woman," he
said softly into her ear.
"And you're such a surprise." She kissed his mouth, a hand on his
thigh, and fitted her body to his. He caught his breath as she
guided him into her, and they slowly found their rhythm, then lost
themselves in it.
At last he held her tight, kissing her face, her throat. They lay
still, feeling the warmth of the fire on their skin, their
heartbeats gradually slowing. He rolled over and lifted her on top
of him, and she put her head on his shoulder and kissed his neck,
nestling into his body. His arms were solid and warm around her,
and she sighed.
If the woman he was holding was happy to be alive, Doggett
thought, who was he to disagree? This might not be forever, but
right now life was fine in a lot of ways. He decided to enjoy it.
End
Author's notes:
Left Hand Canyon, Ward, Boulder Canyon, and the Indian Peaks are,
of course, real places. Ward is a funky little mountain enclave.
The "general store" really exists too, complete with dogs, though
I can't say I know their names.
There was a real Detective Steve Thomas in the Boulder PD, a
stand-up guy who resigned in protest a couple of years back over
the horribly botched Jon-Benet Ramsey murder investigation. He's
a carpenter now and last year wrote an excellent book on the whole
Ramsey fiasco.
No lingerie was harmed in the making of this fiction. For the sake
of the eroticism in the story, birth control and STDs were not
addressed. Hey kids: Don't try that at home.
Thanks to Sabine for the "scratch and pant and bite."
Thanks to my fellow DogGoddesses. You are all great.
And, yes, there actually are people who can aid the healing
process with energy the way this story depicts it. There is no
"Boulder Center for Energy Medicine," but there are plenty of
similar types of places in the area. Boulder *is*. . .different,
but the term "the People's Republic of Boulder" is not my
creation. It's real too.