Title : Querant: The Hanged Man

Author : Suzanne Turgeon

Archive : As you wish

Spoilers : Bits from Seasons 7 and 8, and spinning forward. 

Rating : PG-13?

Category : Action / Drama

Summary : Scully and Doggett reach a new balance.

Feedback :  to:  TURGEON2@prodigy.net 

Disclaimer : These are, of course, all Chris Carter's 
wonderful characters, profiting only the exercise of my own 
overactive imagination. 

Author's note:  Done for the pure enjoyment of writing and 
reading.

 

Title:  "Querant:  The Hanged Man"

by Suzanne Turgeon
 

Prologue --

The rain was more bitter than cold. It began as he stared 
down, only vaguely aware of the threatening deluge that turned 
the vast lawns into a misty vista. The grave plot consumed his 
attention. It was an anniversary that should never have been 
celebrated. The weather played out like background theme music 
at the periphery of his focus and it was so bitter, like the 
saline taste creeping into his mouth despite his tightly shut 
lips.

He had to stop coming here on this day.

It left him hollow for weeks after.

Abruptly he turned away and began the walk across the sodden 
grass to the concrete pathway.

She followed his journey in the binoculars.  Under the 
umbrella, Special Agent Dana Scully waited until the man had 
left the cemetery, got into his car and driven away. Then she 
set out across the manicured park.

It took a few minutes to pinpoint the monument; seconds to 
absorb the implications.

One marker:

Laura Ann Doggett - 1962 - 1992.

James Andrew Doggett - 1985 - 1992.


"Oh my god," she whispered and looked off into the pastel 
distance. So much was explained by those austerely 
engraved names.

 

-I-   

#

The following morning, Monday, the office phone rang.  Special 
Agent John Doggett took the call. It was A.D. Skinner and it 
was short and to the point.

"Well, here's an interesting one," Doggett said, putting down 
the phone. "Some Hungarian Embassy official was offed 
overnight in a fortune teller's parlor in downtown D.C. 
Along with the alleged Gypsy."

"Any bite marks?" Scully hardly glanced up.

"Spare me the ex-sanguination routine." His voice was 
unusually sarcastic.


#

On the floor by overturned chairs, the man identified as an 
Hungarian diplomat and a dark-complected woman in a 
stereotypical Gypsy costume lay on their backs opposite each 
other. A round table stood between them. A layout of ornately 
decorated cards was spread out on the rumpled table cloth.  
The remaining deck sprawled slightly askew, as though toppled 
by a sharp blow to the table. Each person' expression was 
frozen in a rictus of terror. The musky incense permeating 
the room barely dented the stench of death. The Washington, 
D.C. detective who escorted in Scully and Doggett said that 
by initial appearances the victims had been dead for around 
eight hours.

"I don't see any wounds.  No blood at all," Scully said, 
glancing over the scene as she and her partner gloved up. 
She seemed philosophical.

"Beats me," said the homicide detective, dubiously.  "No 
obvious signs of death.  Just dead as doornails.  Looks kind 
of like they got scared to death.  The guy's holding something 
in his fist.  We went hands off and left that for you as soon 
as we found out this guy was a politico.  Have fun."

Doggett wore a now familiar demeanor of pained skepticism as 
he took in the details. He examined the identification 
documents that had been removed from the man's body, the now 
late Ivano Teranko. The name of the woman, advertised as 
"Madame Velana" by the painted sign on the outside window 
of the shop, was revealed by the conspicuously posted 
business license as Velana Hruska.

The two agents looked at each other then, eyebrows raised in 
unison. They began to work the crime scene.

Against the black and gold Persian rug, a card protruded from 
beneath Teranko's head. His left hand was locked around 
something with a heavy gold chain attached to it. After the 
photographer finished up, Doggett carefully extracted the 
rectangular card. One side was black with a scrolled filigree 
design in gold and silver. The obverse featured the 
illustration of a man, bound, hanging upside down by one foot 
from a tree limb. 

"What do you know about fortune telling cards?" Doggett asked, 
holding up the card between two fingers.

Looking up from her examination of the dead woman, Scully 
considered, a backward tuck of her head pulling a little smile 
from her. "Not much. That's not an area we ever really got 
into."

"Guess we've got our homework cut out for us. I don't know 
squat about this crap." Doggett slipped the card into a 
plastic bag. He went after the fist. The stiffened fingers 
were finally persuaded to yield their secret. "Check this 
out, Agent."

Scully looked up at the glint of a two-inch-diameter golden 
medallion rotating at the end of the chain. Doggett caught 
it back it up into his hand, hefted it. "Pricey little 
bauble, my guess. Maybe it was an attempted robbery and the 
perp got scared off before he could get this."  

He bagged the evidence.  

Next, circling the table, he examined the skewed arrangement 
of cards on the rumpled cloth. He directed the police 
photographer to record what was there. Afterwards, he 
gingerly confiscated the entire deck of colorfully faced 
cards. "The lab can check these for prints, and unusual 
substances like contact poison or drugs. I don't want 
anybody else getting bit like I did on that Via Negativa 
cult case, or worse."

"And we can round up the usual gang of suspects," said Scully, 
looking around the ornately draped room and its esoteric 
accouterments. There was no other sign of foul play, nothing 
that seemed out of place, just a carefully created aura of 
mystery in blacks and deep reds  highlighted with the brilliant 
accents of an ornate Eastern European peasant decor. And, of 
course, there was not one suspect in sight. She missed Mulder 
beyond words.

#  

The brownstone Hungarian Embassy sat back sedately among the 
trees behind spiked iron fencing. They met in a small private 
office, the walls of which carried through the Old World theme 
of dark wooden closeness characterizing the building's 
entrance way.  There was an airless sense of old wax and 
claustrophobia about the place that both agents shared 
uneasily without knowing the other's feelings. 

"Ivano," the elderly ambassador, Stefan Mindru, spoke sadly 
of Teranko in fluent English, "had a deep interest in history 
as do I, but he had an even deeper one for the esoteric.  
Even an obsession. He always carried a Tarot set with him 
and made no decision without privately consulting his cards." 

"Cards like these?" said Scully, holding up the photographs of 
the card layout from the crime scene.            

The ambassador nodded. His skin's general pallor hinted that 
he was not a well man. "In fact, Ivano used that particular 
style.  He told me the design was copied from cards dating to 
the early Renaissance. The original set is now held in the 
National Museum in Budapest, Hungary. There is debate among 
historians of the subject about the ultimate origin of the 
Tarot. Most commonly favor ancient Egypt but the Roma, as the 
Gypsies prefer to be called, made the fortune-telling art 
peculiarly their own even before the Renaissance began. That 
particular card deck is now widely available commercially, but 
the old hand-made decks, even single cards, are quite valuable 
in the antiquities market." 

"If Teranko did his own readings, why would he consult 
someone else?" asked Doggett.

"A cross-check, I suppose. He did not always trust his own 
readings."

"Was he a Gypsy?"

"Not that I am aware of. It is not common that Roma find 
their way into higher office. There is still too much
prejudice against them."

"This is the woman Mr. Teranko was found with." Scully showed 
the ambassador a crime scene shot of the dead woman. Mindru's 
eyes widened.

"Is she familiar to you?"

"No, no.  But, like Ivano, she appears terrified." The 
ambassador looked away with a grimace from the contorted 
features. 

"Then you would have no knowledge whether she was an 
authentic Gypsy?"

"I do not know whom he saw during his private time away from 
here," Mindru said, "I do know that he had a great interest 
in the Gypsies. His wife, in fact, claims Gypsy blood."

"Where is she?  We would like talk to her," Scully said.

"She has been confined to bed. Our embassy physician had to 
heavily sedate her when she received news of her husband's 
death. It will probably be mid-day tomorrow before she can 
answer any questions."

"What can you tell us about this?" Doggett passed the 
plastic-bagged medallion to the ambassador.

Mindru recovered some of his scholarly interest. "I have 
not seen this exact design before but I do know a little 
of jewelry making. It could be talismanic, judging from 
the symbols." He examined it more closely. "There is 
some sort of...perhaps...heraldic device. It appears 
rather roughly made by today's standards. It is likely 
a lost wax cast, and I would say that it is a unique 
piece of folk art and quite old. Early Renaissance, 
even earlier." 

"Is it Gypsy?"

"Perhaps."  Mindru seemed guarded.

"Well, there had to be a third party involved, the 
murderer we have to find.  Someone who either accompanied
Teranko to the fortune teller, who was already there 
waiting, or who came in on them.  All we need is a live body 
and a clear motive."

The ambassador shrugged sadly.  "Perhaps the answer is in 
the cards."

Doggett's tolerant expression told Scully that he knew it 
would be in the investigation.

A few more fruitless questions clearly showed that there 
was nothing more to be gained by their remaining at the 
embassy.  

Then, as they crossed the broad black-and-white tiled 
foyer in the company of the courtly old man, Scully saw 
Doggett's head snap toward a shadowed hallway. Briefly, 
she saw a female form recede into its depth around a 
corner.  

"Hold it!" Doggett called out and was already halfway 
across the tile to the hall's entrance. "You there, wait 
up."  

Scully bit back a cautioning. She was beginning to realize 
that Doggett possessed that uncanny sixth sense of the 
streetwise cop and that he had picked up on the fact that 
they were being furtively watched where she had missed the 
onlooker's presence altogether. She stared resignedly at 
her edgy partner's departure and smiled uneasily at 
Ambassador Mindru's seeming befuddlement. It had not 
escaped her that instead of letting the security presence 
stationed in the foyer assist Doggett, the ambassador had 
quietly signaled the uniformed guard to hold his position.

In seconds, Agent Doggett realized his quest was hopeless.  
The hallway turned into a rabbit warren of corridors and
closed doors with not a soul in sight and he was in an 
Embassy without warrant or permission to continue searching.  
"Damn!" he said through clenched teeth. He came back into 
the foyer, demand crisp in his blue eyes.

"I want to know who that woman is."  

The FBI man's forceful demeanor startled Mindru. Scully 
felt sorry for the Ambassador; Doggett's presence could be 
downright intimidating and right then he seemed to fill 
the entrance hall. Mindru recovered enough to say 
quietly, "Perhaps a day worker, one of the cleaning 
staff? I'm sorry, I did not see her."

Doggett pressed. "She was a young woman and she looked 
familiar, as if she might be related to the dead woman in 
that picture. I want to know who she is."

The Ambassador's unease increased. "She is probably on 
her way home for the day. That is all. I will find out 
tomorrow from the head of housekeeping who she is -- " 

"You know, it's not appreciated when people don't come 
clean with us," Doggett said. "This could read like you're 
intentionally hampering the investigation."

"My apologies," said Mindru as Scully moved in to attempt 
to deflect her partner's rising anger. The ambassador 
spoke gently: "I do recall hearing something about 
someone on staff who was associated with a Roma group in 
the area. Perhaps it was she."

"So where do we find these Gypsies?"

"That I do not know either. I will attempt to find out.  
Perhaps Mrs. Teranko will know something as well. You 
will now excuse me, it has already been a long and 
upsetting day and I have more meetings ahead before I 
retire for the evening. And I am not as young as I once 
was."

"We'd appreciate your letting us know as soon as you learn 
something," Scully said carefully.

The ambassador paused before the beautiful red-haired agent 
and regained some command. "Wait here a moment." Leaving 
them in the hall, Mindru exited through a door in an alcove.   

"He's stonewalling. He knows something," Doggett growled.

"And you could have been blunter about it," Scully hissed.

"Damn it, Agent Scully --- "

"He's an old man and not well. And he is still an 
ambassador. Take it easy with him. And what is wrong with 
you? You're as wired as I've ever seen you." 

Marine-stiff and jaw set hard, Doggett gave her one sharp 
look and fixed his gaze on the closed door.  

Presently Mindru returned to hand Scully an old leather 
bound volume.  "I will lend you this book. It is an English 
translation of a nineteenth century study of Gypsy beliefs.  
Perhaps it will aid you in your research." 

On the way out into the late afternoon, Scully smiled 
sweetly at Doggett who stolidly ignored her.

#

In the car, Scully used her cell phone to arrange for 
assistance with the evening's autopsies. To Doggett, she 
said, "I want to get this turned around as quickly as 
possible. But, and this is just a small but, I have the 
feeling that the final results are going to be just as 
negative as the preliminaries. Maybe toxicology will be 
more interesting when it comes back -- Oh, turn the corner 
there. There's still time to stop and pick up something 
else we're going to need." 

#

A few minutes before closing, Scully and Doggett stepped 
through the door into an alternate realm in search of 
enlightenment into the Ancient Wisdom. The psychic supply 
store was a sleek glass-and-chrome supermarket of the 
occult, paranormal, New Age crystaldom, and UfOlogy.

"Oh my God," Doggett winced.

They made their way across the store to a wall display 
under a sign advertising "Tarot."

"How many flavors of fortune telling cards can be right, 
for Chris sakes? There must be a hundred different kinds 
of decks here. People can be such gullible idiots."

Scully looked slightly askance at the glass case and racks 
of decks within.

"Think I'll stick with fortune cookies," Doggett muttered.  
"Limits the options."

"And predictably dull."

Doggett frowned down at her.

"Here."  Scully pointed. What appeared to be a back design 
similar to the set from the murder scene adorned the front 
of a plastic-wrapped pack. A sample pack, marked as 
incomplete, perched on a nearby accessible shelf, along 
with other styles. She compared the cards within to the 
photographs, then found a clerk to get them an unopened 
deck and to recommend a book designed to interpret those 
cards. 

#

Doggett leaned against a cabinet counter on the periphery of 
the morgue room, idly watched Scully and the coroner work 
over the two victims, listened to their commentaries, and 
contemplated the strange turnings of life. He had been 
unable to bring himself to independently begin work on the 
Gypsy research and the Tarot business which he found 
patently offensive. Eventually, he simply watched the 
red-headed agent perform her pathology duties, and couldn't 
deny his admiration of her efficiency and expertise. Or 
her stunning good looks.

It was pushing 11 P.M. when the autopsies wrapped up on the 
news of a head-shaking negative that sent them in temporary 
defeat back to the office.

 

- II -

   #

"This set is definitely reproduced from that classic deck 
of cards the Ambassador mentioned," said Scully, as she 
looked over the two books, one antique, one soft-cover and 
pristine, laid out on the desk. Late dinner, plastic-wrapped 
sandwiches, sat on plastic plates by their elbows along with 
the inevitable Styrofoam coffee cups. She was obviously weary 
and her partner had scaled back from his earlier edginess.  
Doggett sat at the corner of Mulder's desk, precisely at 90 
degrees from her as she paged along, and watched her covertly 
but closely. "And, according to this book, the Hanged Man 
image is one of the Major Arcana cards, signifying someone who 
is facing a major life change."

"Yeah, death is a pretty major change, I'd say." 

Scully went on: "It can signify personal sacrifice by an 
adept. Or a life in suspension, as in waiting on the cusp 
of change or sacrifice, a change in priorities. Very profound 
in its significance, what that import is may not easily be 
seen or grasped. In some cases that may be anything from, 
say, martyrdom, to duty, to an understanding or great awakening 
to the purpose of the Querant's higher nature." 

"The what?"

"The Querant. The Seeker who is asking a question of the 
cards. And, depending on whether the card was laid down 
upright, it can indicate that the Seeker, through dedicated 
service, should, basically, have faith in the Higher Force's 
power to resolve a situation or accept its resolution as 
ordained. If the card is reversed, the Querant needs to 
revise his position, or will find his situation or beliefs 
reversed from his original stance."

"Sounds like some sort of predestination concept."

"More like choosing the correct path, I think. Depending 
on the Seeker's personality, the proper resolution to a 
situation can be placed in limbo or 'hung up' if that 
person is, say, stubborn or prideful, or in some other 
way selfish and immovable or narrow-minded. The 
determination to have things the Seeker's own way may 
impede or totally block these important life changes." 

"In other words, he can always claim the devil in him made 
him do it. Great insanity defense." Doggett's sarcasm 
drew Scully's measured glance. "You can say that about 
any kind of fortune telling or horoscope, if you can 
honestly say anything at all."

"I think it's supposed to be interpreted in the 
subtleties of meanings depending on how the cards 
fall." Scully smiled drily. She examined the print 
enlargement and paged through the book. She pointedly 
turned the book around for Doggett. "And the layout of 
the cards seems to be this one, again a classic pattern. 
And we might assume that the Hanged Man card was taken 
from this point," her finger touched an opening in the 
card positions in the photograph. "Unless the layout 
was too disrupted by whatever happened at the scene 
when the victims jumped up from the table and knocked 
over their chairs, we may be able to tell what the 
reading might have meant to Mr. Teranko. Of course, 
with the card having been under his head, there's no 
way to know whether it was originally orientated up 
or reversed."

Under Doggett's unhappy observation, Scully picked out the 
depicted cards from the deck and laid them out in the 
pattern matching the crime scene photograph.

#

Forty minutes later, they had both combed through the 
instruction book. Their individual notes agreed that the 
layout foreshadowed a battle for supremacy to be waged by 
two deceitful kings over a legacy, which would be mediated 
at great cost by a third person facing a great journey 
ahead in life.   

"*If* that Hanged Man card originally sat here in the 
layout shown in the photo before it was removed. Big 
if."

"Maybe we need to ask ourselves whether this was the 
original layout or it was all set up after the murder."  
Doggett stared glumly at the deck.  

"A message from the killer?"

He shrugged. "If a message, then who for? The dead?  
Or someone living connected to the victims? The Hanged 
Man card was deliberately stuck under Teranko's head." 

"Deliberately? What if it had already fallen to the floor 
and he simply collapsed on it?"

"The rest of the cards aren't in that much disarray. If 
there was a lot of violent activity, the other cards 
probably would have been more scattered across the table 
or onto the floor. I'd bet good money that it was put 
there under his head."

Scully thumbed through Mindru's Gypsy book. The contents 
covered the Romani culture and beliefs, including various 
aspects of fortune telling, and had numerous lithographs 
of artifacts and emblematic designs, but nothing that 
immediately related to the medallion. Perhaps the book 
loan had been a peace offering or a lever to send them on 
their way and out of their intrusion into whatever secrets 
lay within the embassy walls. 

"Meanwhile we have the question of whether the fortune 
teller was a real one and a Gypsy."  

"They're all charlatans," Doggett said around a bite of 
sandwich. 

"I think we need to go to the source and to talk to 
Teranko's widow and investigate that Gypsy enclave."

"First thing in the morning we rattle the ambassador's cage 
again and see if he's got a location for us."

The clock was pushing one A.M. 

Doggett looked at Scully. "You're beat. You have 
circles under your eyes. Go home and get some sleep."  

"And you?"

"Not tired. I'll hang in here for a few." 

Doggett watched her go. With the agitation level he 
felt, there would be little chance of sleep for some 
hours. Then, in her wake, the basement office's 
loneliness set in. He idly fingered the cards, riffled 
them.

A card slipped out onto the desk. 

He picked it up and looked at it, and found the Hanged 
Man staring back at him. In irritation, he returned it 
to the deck and set it aside. Drumming fingers on the 
leather binding of Mindru's book, he stared around the 
office, at that infernal flying saucer poster on the 
wall. 

He refused to believe.

And yet....

Idly, he cut the deck one-handed.  



- III -

   #

They both showed up at the office very early. Toxicology 
was back. And it was zero. Fingerprints were a mass of 
smudges, the accumulation of the cards' life-time of use.

Scully assessed Doggett's mood. If anything it seemed darker 
than yesterday. "Is there a problem?"

"Yeah," he said after a long pause. "I stayed up half the 
night with these cards. Laying them out. Shuffling them, 
laying them out. It was like I got hooked on the damned 
things. Every time, that same goddamned Hanged Man card 
kept turning up in virtually the same position. And the 
message all seems to be the same, just like the cards at 
the crime scene. Like the message is intended for me now.  
What the hell is going on?"

Scully sighed and sat down.

"Mulder often talked about synchronicity in life."

"What?"

"In a nutshell, things that don't usually seem important, 
that keep turning up in one's life scheme and take on a 
greater significance than normal, without necessarily being 
quantifiable but which nonetheless become somehow very 
important to that particular observer."  

"The new word that's suddenly everywhere you look?"

"But bigger than that. Jung wrote some very heavyweight 
work on the subject. I -- " Scully looked off into some 
quiet, secret zone. "I had an experience like that once.  
Not long before Mulder disappeared." She looked back at 
Doggett and saw the sharpened intensity of his eyes. "It 
was subtle. And life-changing. Hard to explain."

A long minute ticked off. Doggett grew visibly tenser.  
Then her partner gathered himself. "Look, I feel like 
we're getting nowhere here. Have you eaten? I haven't 
even had coffee yet."

"Some toast might work." 

"Let's go get something. My buy."

#

They were well into their breakfasts before the silence 
between them finally screamed to be broken. Doggett 
carefully, deliberately put down his fork and sat back 
into his chair. "We need to talk."

"Cards on the table?" said Scully.

"Bad choice of words." Humorlessly, Doggett reached 
inside his jacket, pulled the Hanged Man card from his 
pocket, looked at it with distaste and tossed it onto 
the table. "No, I guess what I'm trying to say is 
that *I* need to talk....." 

Scully took a sip of coffee, and settled back. Her
partner's gaze narrowed, stayed on the card, as if he 
half-expected it to levitate. His eyes had turned to 
haunted steel. She waited, knowing that for this sort 
of man, that sort of talking was the hardest kind to do.

Doggett said, "I'm not used to things being out of my 
control. Since I came onto this assignment it's 
like -- no -- the universe *has* turned upside down...."  

"I know the feeling. You could ask for reassignment."

"I don't quit, Agent Scully. And I made you a promise."

"Then you're in it for the long haul.You have to start 
thinking outside of the box. You have to go with the new 
flow. Things have changed for a lot of people since I 
started working on the X-Files. I don't much like it.  
But there's not much I can do about it. Except to go 
with that flow. And hope for the best."

He looked up at her. His gaze was piercing, looking at 
her across the breadth of the inverted universe.  

She moistened her lips. "I saw you at the cemetery Sunday 
morning."

"I know," he whispered. "I saw you, too, when I was 
getting into the car."  

She glanced away. "I was visiting a friend's 
gravesite...."

"No, you were following me."

Scully couldn't bristle, much as she felt like it. It was 
not the time and she suddenly didn't have the energy for
it. "You're not the most forthcoming person. I needed to 
know more."

"Goes for us both. You were in the hospital recently.  
You're pregnant, aren't you."

She breathed out carefully. "You don't miss much, do you."

"No, I don't." He picked up his own coffee and his hand 
was not quite steady. "We've both lost a lot in this 
life."

Scully's cell phone buzzed. She answered, listened. "It's 
the Embassy. They've come up with something. And the 
widow is ready to talk."

When they got up, Doggett hesitated, then reached out and 
grimly picked up the card, put it back inside his jacket.

#

Ambassador Mindru saw them in private quarters with 
Teranko's wife.

Swarthy and striking, though not a natural beauty, Ilse 
Teranko bore a startling resemblance to the dead woman 
and, Doggett was sure, the woman he had glimpsed in the 
embassy hallway. She was very subdued. 

"I found this in Ivano's personal effects. He had 
taken great pains to hide it from me." Uncertainly, 
she held out a small leather bag that looked very old. 

Doggett took the bag, eased open the drawstrings. Inside 
was a deck of cards similar to the cards they had purchased 
earlier. Yet quite different. Their historical age and 
worn but painstaking handcraftedness was obvious.  
Apprehensively, he turned over the top card, and blinked 
slowly at the hand-painted image of the Hanged Man.  

"If that deck is what I believe it to be," Mindru said, 
"it is quite valuable."  

Scully cast a sidelong glance at Doggett who stared 
fixedly at the card deck. She cleared her throat.  
Doggett looked at her, then turned the card face down.  
He handed her the pouch and the cards.  

Regrouping with a long breath, Doggett took out the 
plastic bag with the piece of gold jewelry and addressed 
Mrs. Teranko. "Apparently he was hiding other things 
from you as well. Have you ever seen this?" He held 
out the medallion. 

The woman's eyes widened. Her voice trembled, "It is a
Gypsy emblem signifying royalty. For my tribe.  It is 
very old. It was stolen many years ago, first by the 
Nazis and then later by Communist agents. Then it was 
smuggled out of Hungary through the antiquities black 
market. My people have been trying to find it for 
many years.  Such talismans are usually passed down 
from son to son as the inheritance of power. It is 
very dangerous for the wrong people to have. And it 
should not have been in Ivano's possession."

"Meaning what?" Doggett said. 

"He is -- was not Roma. He was not in any line of 
descent, he had no right to have this medallion."

"But it was found in his hand at the murder scene."

"And he was dead."  

"Did you know a Velana Hruska?"

The woman lowered her eyes, dipped her head in assent.  
"My maiden name is Hruska. Velana was my older 
sister." 

"Now we're getting somewhere. Were you aware that your 
husband knew her?"

She nodded, tears working down her cheeks. "He must have 
recovered the medallion and sought to sell it back to the 
tribe.  Probably the cards, too. He... had a gambling 
habit. Very bad."

"Where were you the night of the murder?"

Ambassador Mindru said, "I -- and others -- can vouch that 
she was here, under our roof." 

In a rush, Ilse Teranko said, "Both of these things must be 
returned to my tribe, to the rightful heir. Or...." 

"Or what?"

"Or there will be retribution. These are sanctified 
objects. They want to go home. They are close and now 
will not rest until they are in the proper hands." 

"The objects won't rest?"  Doggett glared at a distasteful 
illogic. "What do you mean?" 

"There is great power imbued in both the cards and the 
medallion."

"Greed is pretty powerful, too. Sounds like someone else 
was after the medallion at least and killed two people in 
the process. The medallion was at that shop because of 
your husband. So how did he come to know of it and its 
value?"

"Over the years, I had spoken of it, of my hopes for its 
recovery."

"I had to pry that medallion out of your husband's 
fingers. Why would the killer have left it?" 

"Because it couldn't take it with it."

"What?" Bemused, Doggett looked at Scully.

"The power," Scully said, "in the medallion."

"The power," he mouthed, then snapped, "No, what it means 
is there is someone else involved who has interests in this 
medallion.  That person was and is looking for it and knew 
that your husband had it. And must have followed him to 
your sister's. And killed both of them for it in some way 
that we haven't been able to detect. That person was also 
scared away before he or she could get it. What about the 
other woman I saw here in the back hallway yesterday?  
Could it have been her?"

Ilse Teranko half rose in panic. "No! She is -- another 
of my sisters.  Vana."

"Just how many sisters do you have, Mrs. Teranko?"

"Six.  I have six."

"And which one are you?" asked Scully.

Doggett stared at her. "What do you mean?"

"There is an old superstition about luck or power going 
to the seventh son of a seventh son. Maybe, in this
case, it's daughters."       

"You have guessed well," whispered Ilse Teranko. "The 
medallion must go to my youngest sister, Tatiana. And 
whatever you wish to think, Agent Doggett, the medallion, 
as well as the cards, must now be returned to the royal 
heir by the designated bearer."

The ambassador nodded.

"So who is that?" said Doggett.

"You are the one holding them."

#

Taking a long breath, Doggett put the medallion and cards 
together in the pouch and secured the bag in his inner 
jacket pocket. "Okay, do you want to tell me where these 
Gypsies are, this tribe of yours? We find them, I bet 
we find your husband's and sister's killer."

Mrs. Teranko stared at the carpet.

"They aren't exactly camped out on the White House lawn.  
Okay, Ambassador, do you keep any sort of track of these 
people?" 

"Only registered Hungarian nationals in this country. But 
Gypsies, whatever their nationality, do not often make 
themselves or their itineraries on this planet public 
knowledge, Agent Doggett."

"On this planet." Doggett stared at the ambassador.  
"Interesting turn of phrase."

"An interesting culture."

"Is there any other reason besides financial gain that 
Teranko would have for wanting these things?"

"Power," Scully offered. 

"A desperate fool's desires." The widow studied her 
fingers clenched in her lap.

Doggett frowned. "Then, Mrs. Teranko, since you have 
admitted these people are your family, you must know 

where they are.  Please tell us." 

She mustered courage to look directly up at the agent.  
"If you promise that it will be you who returns the 
medallion and the cards."
 

- IV -

   #

Ilse Teranko's map was quite precise. They found their 
way out to the site through the rain-grayed Maryland 
countryside without incident, and "no smart remarks about 
Blair witches," as Agent Doggett warned his partner.  

The encampment was on an abandoned farmstead tucked down 
in a hollow among trees and brush breaks. There, the 
Gypsies had set up a squatter's life around a ramshackle 
house and barn.  A pair of well-used RV buses and several 
old cars sat parked haphazardly around the yard.

As they approached, people began to emerge from the 
buildings and the RVs. "I think they were warned we 
were coming," Scully said.

A girl in peasant blouse, sweater and long skirt stood 
on the overgrown grass by the house's porch. She 
hardly seemed old enough for her obviously pregnant 
state. As they rolled past, she raised her left hand.  
A ring glinted on her third finger. She made some 
sort of obscure sign. 

"I hate to think what that meant," Doggett said, checking 
in the rear view mirror as he parked the car. "Did we 
just get flipped off Gypsy style?"

"The book Mindru lent us had several pages of illustrated 
hand signs. They're warding sigels, for protection.  
And hexing. We can look it up later." 

"Yeah, it was probably the Curse of the Cell Phone."  
Doggett shook his head. "And so much for horse drawn 
Gypsy wagons. Now it's Winnebagos. Burst my bubble."            

By the time they got out of the car and formally identified 
themselves, a crowd of twenty adults and a number of 
youngsters had amassed in the shelter of the old wooden 
buildings and two motor homes. The onlookers' expressions 
were uniformly somber.The atmosphere seemed charged 
despite the day's raininess.   

"Hostile forces," Doggett said only to Scully's ears.  

She acknowledged with a slight nod.  

"Somebody in charge around here?" Doggett asked as they 
maneuvered around the yard's mud holes.

Eventually, two men stepped forward. They emerged from 
two separated groups and each seemed to be eying the other 
in a less-than-friendly manner.

"I am Zoltan Phillipe," said the older of the two, a
hard-faced, muscular man in his mid-forties, had stepped 
forth first.

"I am Michael Hruska."

Both kept equidistant from each other and the agents. The 
tension between the two men heightened.

"We're investigating the deaths of two people, one of 
them allegedly named Velana Hruska," Doggett said.  

The announcement was greeted with stoic silence.  

Scully presented the photograph of the dead fortune 
teller. No one moved to take it and she had to 
physically walk the printed image from person to 
person. She and her partner scanned the faces around 
them, picking out familiar features among some of the 
women and looking for a glimmer of reaction. They 
remained rebuffed by silence.  

As Scully returned to stand beside him, Doggett 
assessed several of the women. He honed in on one 
who closely resembled Ilse Teranko. "I saw you at 
the embassy."

Only the slightest raising of the woman's chin 
confirmed his statement.

"And who are you, young lady?" Doggett suddenly asked 
of the pregnant girl. 

With features bearing the undeniable stamp of blood 
common to four other women present, the girl looked 
all of thirteen yet bore a regal undercurrent of 
authority.  She glanced at the man off to her right 
who had identified himself as Zoltan Phillipe. He 
only glared at Doggett, and sent a quick, threatening 
glance at the man who had called himself Michael Hruska. 
"Tatiana," the young girl said, her voice growing 
bolder.  "Tatiana Phillipe."  

"Your daughter?" Doggett asked Zoltan Phillipe. 

"He is my husband," said the girl, stepping forward.  
"I am Hruska."

"The seventh daughter," Scully murmured. "And you are an 
Hruska, too," she said to Michael. "What relation?"

"Brother," came the proud reply.  

Perhaps twenty-five, Tatiana's brother had a voluptuary's 
handsomeness with petulant lips and a cockiness that would 
never develop into the ruthlessness undercurrent of his 
camp mate's. Scully felt repulsed by both men.

Doggett motioned his partner back by their car and said in 
quiet undertone, "She's not much more than a kid. A 
well-schooled innocent in a camp of wolves. Not a State in 
the Union would recognize that as a legitimate marriage. 
Child Protective Services could be called in on this one.  
We might be able to use that as a threat to get some 
cooperation."    

"Careful," Scully said under her breath.  "There's a power 
play going on between those two men.  And I'll bet that it's 
over who gets the medallion." 

"And we'll get nowhere if we don't push the envelope a 
little."

"He has sacred things." The young pregnant girl pointed at 
Doggett. "I have seen it."

"Wha--?" Doggett's disbelief fell silent on his lips. He 
recovered, said quickly to Scully, "Okay, Teranko's widow 
told them that we have the medallion. They're trying to 
scam us."

"I wonder," Scully whispered, scanning the subtleties 
of the unsmiling faces behind them.  "I think this whole 
camp is divided into two rival factions.  And they want 
one thing -- "

"I and my unborn son claim our birthright!" shrilled 
Tatiana. 

Nonplussed, the agents watched Tatiana advance with her 
hand outstretched, her eyes fixed commandingly on Doggett.

Zoltan leaped forward, seized Tatiana by the arm, pulled 
her roughly back.

"Hey, take it easy," Scully warned and started toward the 
mismatched pair.  

The man suddenly flashed a knife, poising it precariously 
near the girl's throat.

"Are you nuts, man?" Doggett said, pressing past Scully.  
He was already reaching for his holstered weapon.  "What 
do you think you're doing?"

In abruptly close quarters, Doggett heard a chilling gasp.  
He swung around into the flanking action.  Into his worst 
nightmare.           

Michael Hruska had closed in to grab Scully from behind 
and swing her back out of Doggett's reach.  His own knife 
pressed in under Scully's jaw and his sister, the embassy 
worker, was fearfully aiming Scully's weapon at Doggett.  
In that face-off tempered by the sharp steel at his 
partner's throat, Doggett eased off the trigger in a split 
second's instinctive decision. Hruska pulled Scully 
further backward as his sister stepped in front, 
effectively shielding Hruska with a double body block 
using Scully as the second shield.

"Let my sister go," Michael shouted at Zoltan Phillipe, and 
to Doggett, "Give me the medallion." 

"She's a Federal agent," Doggett returned, his total focus 
on Scully. "Don't be stupid. Let her go. Let them both 
go."

From his right, Doggett heard Zoltan's command: "Give up 
your gun, Agent." 

A tiny trickle of blood was working its way from the knife 
tip down Tatiana's exposed neck.  

Seething inwardly, Doggett surrendered his weapon, carefully 
crouching to lay the automatic on a clump of grass. He 
straightened, hands raised away from his body. 

"Back away." Zoltan ordered.

In the camp's utter stillness, Doggett slowly stepped back 
from his gun. As he did, Hruska hissed coarsely at his 
sister. Still holding the service weapon, the sister moved 
clear of Scully and her captor.  

Doggett's partner seemed very pale in the grey light, but 
her steady gaze did not waver from his and somehow conveyed 
confidence to him. In him. He prayed he was up to the 
task.

"The medallion," said Zoltan Phillipe. Roughly casting 
aside his alleged wife, who toppled to the muddy earth, he 
moved closer to Doggett. In his hand, the blade glinted in 
the cloud-shielded afternoon light.

"No, give him nothing," Michael called out.

"Nobody gets anything until Agent Scully is released 
unharmed." Doggett eyed the knife. He detested blades 
and the mere idea of being sliced turned his stomach.

Suddenly Zoltan Phillipe charged. One of the women gasped.  
Cat-agile, Doggett avoided the knife thrust but lost his 
footing in the slimy mud. He rolled with the motion, came 
up nearer his discarded weapon and dove for it. Zoltan was 
on him, forcing him away with a kick to the ribs that he 
partly deflected with a forearm block and a sidewards roll.  
Then the gypsy was at him again and he was sliding in the 
mud.  Scully's alarmed outcry reached his ears even as 
severe impact and hot pain at his waist line forced a 
gasp from his throat. His fist landed solidly and his 
attacker receded. 

Then he was on a knee and an arm in the mud surrounded by a 
hushed pause and his 

free hand was autonomically pressing against the intense 
pain just above his belt. He looked down, saw fresh blood 
reddening his fingers. An inner voice cried out a denial.

There was shouting and a shot rang out.  

Doggett lifted his head to see the Gypsy woman inexpertly
holding Scully's weapon trained somewhere on the middle 
ground between them all. Then the gun dropped from her 
fingers. 

Something else was happening.  He could hear it, feel it.  
Something powerfully electrical in the air.

"John, the medallion!  Get rid of it!  Throw the pouch 
away!" 

Through the intense haze of pain, Doggett registered the 
urgency of his partner's strangled warning. Fumbling 
inside his jacket, he seized the leather drawstrings 
protruding from its pocket. Darkness loomed. Not the 
oblivion of impending unconsciousness. He recognized 
another kind of blackness. It was above him...
something...Other, gathering. In a last effort before he 
was claimed, Doggett instinctively flung away the antique 
bag.  The cosmos shrieked about his head.

Fear and awe loosened the lock around Scully's throat.  
The knife point dropped away. She struck it clear with 
her forearm against Michael Hruska's wrist, leveraged 
her weight, replanting a foot in the wet earth and sunk 
her other foot into the groin of the man behind her.  
As he reeled away, she caught the Gypsy in the face with 
a back fist.  

The roiling black entity hovered, a fog of violence, above 
the RVs. She ran forward underneath it with single-minded 
purpose toward the man on his knees, hugging his gut.

Around her, Scully heard screams and cries of fright. Her 
peripheral vision recorded the two Gypsy men converging on 
each other, grappling for something on the ground. Scully 
caught her partner as he looked on, struggling stubbornly 
to keep from pitching forward into the rutted muck.  
Grasping her supporting arm, Doggett choked out, "God, 
look!"

An elemental storm cloud of doom built low over the farm 
yard.  At the forefront of the cowering onlookers, the 
small child-mother clutched at her hair.    

Michael Hruska attempted to wrest the pouch from Zoltan's 
fingers.  His rival's hand closed over his fingers, over 
the prize of their contention. The older man swung his 
arm with extreme force. The knife plunged in a vicious 
upward arc into Hruska's belly just under the ribcage, a 
heart strike, the target that had been intended to take 
out Scully's partner. A wail shook the air as the 
brother's body fell away. Oblivious to everything except 
what he grasped, the usurper to the throne lifted the
prize before his face with a laugh of triumph -- and 
then his expression froze as he focused beyond his hand 
into the horror of his oncoming destruction.  

The blackness descended.

#

Little Tatiana walked slowly to the bodies of the two 
prone men.  She crouched down, awkward with her unborn 
child, and retrieved the pouch from the grass.  Holding 
it close to her belly, she stood with tears streaming 
down her face.  

The blackness surrounding them all, shutting out the 
somber day, dissipated, dissolved into the grayness.

Mesmerized, Doggett whispered, "If I hadn't seen it 
myself...my God...."

"I'll remind you of that," Scully said breathlessly,
staring at the little Gypsy queen standing head bowed 
over the small package. The jolting shift of the 
burden in her arms pulled her attention away from the 
reunion of rightful power. Doggett's full weight was 
suddenly collapsing against her. From a pale, shocky 
face, he looked up at her, his eyes not quite tracking.

"We really need to talk," he gasped thinly and passed 
out.

#

The nurse was adjusting the IV flow as Scully stood 
bedside, studying Doggett's chart, when Skinner came 
into the room. 

"No one at the farm site.  Only traces were tire marks in 
the mud and trash in a pit out behind the house.  They've 
vanished," the Assistant Director said at her shoulder.  
"How's he doing?"  He hated seeing fellow agents comatose, 
rigged up to medical equipment.  It always connoted the 
sterility of failure.  

"The surgery went well. He's had three units of blood.  
His vitals are strong. He's making a good recovery."  
Scully handed the chart to the nurse as she left the room.  
Her eyes scanned the monitor above the bed, then Doggett's 
lean face, before shifting up to assess Skinner. "There 
were no mistakes made on this case, sir. He did what had 
to be done as the situation required. So did I. This 
was just one of those things that happen. The important 
point is that we worked it together, as partners. It is 
my very strong belief, now, that the only mistake made 
was at the very outset. By Kersh. He teamed us."

#

Epilogue: 

It was a warm day when Scully parked the car on the grass 
verge. The walk was necessarily slower, allowing for the 
stringhalt sensation in his gut. But, together, they 
visited the grave. In silence, they stood among the 
memorials, and studied the polished granite, each 
absorbed in the privacy of thought.

When finally he spoke, Doggett's gravelly voice was soft.  
"Just what do you believe in, Agent Scully?" 

"I'm a doctor.  I believe in healing."

Doggett considered those quiet words for awhile. The Hanged 
Man was secure in his wallet. A symbol, an identification 
card that he knew he would, and should, carry for however 
long it was necessary. A reminder to go with the flow.  
In the days to come, that skill might be the only thing to 
keep him, both of them, alive.  Doggett looked skyward.  
A few light clouds, a brilliant rain-cleansed day of azure 
spread out overhead.  He caught Scully's gaze from the 
corner of his eye and turned to her. For a moment they 
stared at each other in the gentle ambience of the day.  

His expression was not quite a smile. Touching her elbow, 
Doggett said, "Time we got back to work." 

 --- Fini ---