One Day Later
Killearn Estates
Tallahassee, FL.
"Let me out right here," Allie Prevatte said, indicating a two-story house on the passenger's side.
The guy driving nodded and pulled into the driveway. Touching her hand, he said, "Mind if I come in and have a beer?"
"Some other time."
Frowning, the guy switched off the ignition and stared at Prevatte's profile. "I thought we were making a connection."
Prevatte reached for the door and opened it. Climbing out, she looked back and smiled. "Stay sweet."
"What does that even mean?"
Prevatte sauntered away. Knowing that her driver was still watching, she half turned and gave the kind of little wave with her fingers that was designed to provoke. She wanted to elicit a reaction. Hadn't that been the point of teasing this guy in the five miles from the downtown bar where she had left her own vehicle? With tentative touches, borderline drunken banter, she had gotten him thinking about what a lucky night it was going to be, and she had relished absorbing that attention, that energy. It was so much to play with them, and now if he made an angry move in her direction …
But no. The guy started the engine and she saw that he was shaking his head as he jerked the car into gear. Prevatte caught the guy's eye and motioned for him to roll down the window so she could take one last verbal shot …
He rolled on, ignoring her.
Well, she thought. He wasn't a very nice person.
The car disappeared, and Prevatte focused her attention on her surroundings. The townhome that was her destination this night was within easy walking distance from the drop-off point.
Fences, wrought-iron gates? The man-made barriers might as well not even exist, given how useless they proved in keeping her out of this neighborhood in the northeastern section of the capital city. She darted into a nearby backyard and zipped through a thin tree line where she would enter Doug Cedarton's residence one last time. The passion she had tasted from him had been exquisite, but it had been ladled out to her in drips and drops, not enough to satisfy the never-ending hunger.
Tonight would come the animal, the final feeding.
And then the next succulent target after Doug Cedarton would be …
She had no idea. Thanks to those two meddling FBI agents, Prevatte had not prepared another nest in her normal fashion. Prevatte bristled at the memory of how that woman, the one named Scully, had confronted her so casually and coolly, threatening to keep her locked in that cage.
Oh, how she wanted to sink her incisors into that red-head's white flesh and –
Enough. Fantasizing about revenge was one thing. When it came to actually confronting that Scully woman again? Well …
She arrived at Cedarton's residence and noticed the absence of light from the windows. It was unusual for the night-owl author to be in bed this early. The paralyzing thought occurred to her that he might not be home, and she dismissed it quickly. All she had to do now was close her eyes and she could sense him inside. Her nose crinkled ever so slightly as she sniffed the cool air that carried his scent like a written invitation.
Slipping inside was easy, just a matter of reverting to her other form. She accessed the kitchen and took a circuitous route from corner to corner, darkness veiling her as she hugged the wall and scampered into the living area.
Cedarton was sitting with the lights off in his recliner. Something seemed off. He was awake, staring straight ahead and thinking, but there was …
What?
She struggled with deciphering what the problem was as she edged behind the chair. Shimmering in waves of green light into her two-legged form, Prevatte suddenly grasped what she was sensing.
Nothing.
Emptiness rolled like beads of sweat off the author and professor in rivulets that Prevatte, with her otherworldly perception, could feel.
That was distressing.
She decided to offer a remedy.
In one fluid motion she stepped in front of the chair and called his name, startling him, confusing him. He reached for the lamp next to him on the coffee table, gripped it as if to take a swing. When he realized it was Prevatte, he exhaled heavily and switched on the lamp instead.
"Were you going to hit me with that?" she asked, feigning innocence.
"My God, Allie."
Cedarton bolted from the recliner and switched on more lights as he stomped down the hall to his bedroom. She followed closely behind, smiling as she felt a surge of energy rush through her.
She was taken aback when she entered. Was that an empty aquarium set up under the window? Since when had Doug become interested in pets? There was also a suitcase sitting next to the wall, prepared to hold the clothes folded neatly on the bed.
"Going somewhere cold, Doug?"
"Alaska. When they told me you were out on bail, I made the arrangements."
The woman crossed her arms and shivered dramatically. "You couldn't get me to live somewhere that cold."
"That's the point, Allie." As the woman's lips curled downward in reaction, Cedarton asked, "Why are you here anyway?"
"So you could tell me why you had me arrested."
"You managed that all by yourself, sweetie. Assaulting an FBI agent?"
"They turned you against me, Doug, filling your head with nonsense about murder."
"People have died, Allie. Writers like me, writers who have been … involved with you."
"FBI conspiracies," she said, sniffing. "I read somewhere that it was the FBI that really killed Marilyn Monroe." Prevatte plopped down on the bed, and her voice dropped to a whisper. "Poor Marilyn, so misunderstood." She looked up at Cedarton with a teary pout. "No one really loved her."
Cedarton stared at her with the same vacant expression he had been wearing earlier when she found him in the living room. "We're done," he said.
"Just like that?" Prevatte rose from the bed.
Gesturing to the door, he said, "Get out, now."
She reached for the top button of her blouse. Unfastened it with practiced deliberation. Painted nails tugged at the second button when –
"What was that noise?" she demanded.
Cedarton stepped away and craned his head in the direction of his front door down the hall. "The FBI," he answered. "My house is under surveillance."
Shoving the man, Prevatte gritted her teeth and snarled, "You tried to trap me?"
The front door swung open. "Federal agents," a woman's voice called.
Mulder yelled, "Dr. Cedarton."
"Back here."
A flash of green light blinded Cedarton momentarily as the pair of agents charged down the hall in his direction. In that split second of illumination, Prevatte disappeared. Cedarton, rubbing his eyes, focused and glanced toward the open closet, but she wasn't there. In his disoriented state, he felt an unsettling something skitter across his foot, but when he looked at the floor, there was nothing.
The terrarium. The lid was off because he had forgotten about it. There was a dry limb within its confines, along with a small bowl of water; mulch lined and covered the bottom.
Mulder and Scully appeared at his door, weapons drawn and working in tandem to illuminate the corners of the room with their flashlights. "Where is she?" Scully asked.
"I don't know, she was just –"
An awful squeal interrupted Cedarton. The three people heard scuffling from under the bed, accompanied by ree-ree-ree's of pain and terror.
"Is that a pet?" Scully asked, holstering her firearm.
Cedarton nodded. "I took Agent Mulder's advice, but I didn't go to the pet store."
The author joined the two FBI special agents in kneeling. Cedarton stretched out and eased down onto the carpet, lying on his side. He raised the sheets and blanket from the floor and, taking Mulder's flashlight, glanced to see what in the small space under the bed was causing the commotion.
"Oh … wow."
Scully joined him on the floor and took a peek for herself. "Oh, my God," she said. "What kind of snake is that?"
"Reticulated python," Mulder said. "Notice the color pattern."
"And what has it caught?" Scully asked.
The python had wrapped its three-foot length around a piece of brownish-gray fur that writhed for its life within the coils. Tiny feet pawed the air, punctuated by horrible shrieks, but instead of relinquishing its grip, the python methodically tightened each time its prey exhaled. With the piece of fur under control, the python opened its mouth revealing razor-sharp teeth, and seized its prey head first. The feeding process had begun.
Cedarton rose to a kneeling position, as did the agents. "It's a rat, Agent Scully."
"Where did you get a reticulated python?" she asked.
The author and the agents climbed to their feet as Cedarton explained. "Remember Mike from Critter Removers? He was telling me about how people buy these pythons and boas because their kids want them as pets. You know how kids are. When the novelty of an exotic animal in the house wears off, they don't want the responsibility anymore. Sometimes they dump the poor snakes in the woods to be rid of them.
"Then what happens? A snake will associate neighborhoods like this one with food. They find a nice, comfortable space under a house or in an attic and take up residence. Pretty soon, other pets in the neighborhood start to disappear, until the day comes when someone spots the long tail of a monster dangling from a vent. The snake, who was just minding his own business, surviving as best as he can, is labeled a pest."
Mulder scanned the bedroom. "Got anything we could use to pry the rat away?"
Shaking her head disapprovingly, Scully grabbed her partner's arm. "I see no reason to interfere with nature running its course."
"You don't understand, Scully; we need that rat to establish –"
"Let it go, Agent Mulder," Cedarton said quietly but firmly. "The rat got what was coming to it."
The agent took another quick look under the bed. The dying rodent's thin tail was slipping into the python's mouth, absorbed in the reptile's lengthy digestive process. Mulder sighed. It was never easy watching a piece of evidence slip away before his eyes.
Two Days Later
FBI Headquarters
Washington, D.C.
Mulder was staring at the computer screen in his office when Scully entered, followed by FBI Assistant Director Walter Skinner. His partner was telling Skinner, "... and there haven't been any reports so far about Prevatte's whereabouts."
"You agents connected the dots," Skinner said. "The local law enforcement agencies can do the rest of the legwork in running her down."
Mulder swiveled in his chair. "Sketches have been provided to the media. Surprisingly, no one seems to have a photo of Prevatte."
"Like she disappeared," Scully said.
"The publicity will make it hard for her to stay hidden," Skinner said. Handing the case file he had been reviewing to Mulder, he said. "The media occasionally has its uses."
"Speaking of the media," Scully said to Skinner, "Mulder and I saw news reports about a probe into Sen. Clemenceau's campaign finances."
"Improper donations, irregularities," Skinner answered. "Apparently, the IRS is taking a hard look at her personal earnings as well."
Mulder cracked a smile. "So I guess she had other reasons for turning up the heat on the FBI besides her friend the writer."
Skinner nodded. "And even though the Bureau is only in the beginning stages of its investigation, someone tipped off a Washington Post reporter." He crossed his arms over his barrel chest and appraised the agent coolly. "Didn't you date a political reporter at the Post a few years ago, Mulder?"
"I doubt she would even remember me."
Skinner felt it necessary to frown at the agent, but Scully saw a trace of a smile on the assistant director's face as he moved by her and exited the basement office. When their boss was out of earshot, Mulder turned his attention to Scully. "A better question," he said. "Don't you still have a contact at the IRS?"
"Why, Mulder, surely you don't think the python in Tallahassee gave some sort of twisted inspiration, do you?"
Later on, when he gave it more thought, Mulder would realize exactly what his partner had meant about the snake.
The remedy for a pest?
Sometimes it's a bigger pest.